Muchas smooches

There has never been anything so beautiful

As when the world first saw you walk.

The night is fresher

The sun is brighter

When your mouth starts chatting me up.

- Excerpt from a love letter, written to me by a classmate with whom I had exchanged less than 20 words total by the time of delivery.

Here it doesn't matter if they know you, or even like you. A lot of dudes just need to date whatever they can get their hands on. No offense.

-A female classmate in Chorus, upon asking me how I liked the music school.

Today I took my guitar back to the craft market to get my buzzy string fixed. When I arrived at the stall, I was surprised to bump into my NFL-sized classmate Mario. He was accompanied by one of our middle-aged and therefore tamer male classmates named Javier, who was at a neighboring stall trying on a hot pink sarape for the upcoming Christmas recital.

"¡¡Katty!!" Mario exclaimed, greeting me with his usual full-bodied hug (made only slightly less awkward without his guitarrón) and cheek-kiss-turned-neck-nuzzle, which always gets worse before it gets better as I wriggle away.

Like several of my male classmates, I used to think Mario had great buddy potential. I chatted with him during class breaks, and had no problem waltzing over and plucking one of his guitarrón strings while tuning my guitar. Little did I know this kind of behavior invites marriage proposals.

I first knew something was up when I brought my then-boyfriend to a school concert at the Museum of Anthropology. Mario was in the audience and caught my arm while then-boyfriend was in the bathroom. 

"Who is that, a boyfriend?!" he asked. I shrugged (the term boyfriend, the same as "groom," seemed a little heavy for this situation) and replied, "I guess so."

"Well you've broken my heart," Mario said, loud enough to be heard over a bunch of 15-year-olds playing the marimba. He turned back to his row of female classmates and, within five minutes, poked one and pulled another's ponytail.

Two weeks later in Chorus, I handed out sheets of music to everyone in the room. When I passed one to Mario, I asked him if he had paid the obligatory 2 pesos for the photocopy. His response:  "You know I would marry you this second, don't you?"

At the same time, another fellow mariachi, José, was apparently having painful dreams about me at night. At least this is what he told me in his four-page love letter, which I unfolded in shock on the bus ride home from class, only to shriek out loud when I noticed that several wallet-sized photos of him in various solemn poses had landed all over my lap.

In that package, which I promptly closed and never opened again, there was also a mix CD. Which brings me to today's issue.

I arrived to class after spending two hours with Mario at the market, which he refused to leave until both he and I were satisfied with the guitar's repairs (which I was at the half-hour mark). As I settled into my classroom seat, José showed up in his usual pinstriped suit with cowboy boots. We are now back to the customary cheek-kiss hello, after many awkward weeks of avoiding each other completely in the aftermath of the Love Package. Not easy, since we both play guitar in the same flipping mariachi.

My teacher, who I should mention is one of my favorite human beings in Mexico despite sharing macho traits a-plenty with Mario and José (namely excessive hair gel and the tendency to frequently and loudly crack himself up), started playing a beautiful song. It was a bolero called "Si Nos Dejan," which he strummed with ease on his abalone-plated vihuela.

"Have you ever heard this song before?" ventured José in a rare moment of conversation, his eyes fixed on some imaginary horizon.

"No," I said, leaving it at that, though not without repressing the urge to scream, "WHY DIDN'T YOU CONSIDER THE FACT THAT WE HAVE TO SIT NEXT TO EACH OTHER FOR TWELVE HOURS A WEEK BEFORE YOU WROTE ME THAT CREEPY LETTER??"

"Oh," he said after a long pause, as if waiting for my mental scream to wrap up. "So I guess you didn't listen to the CD I made you."

I froze. This was his first overt reference to the Love Package since he gave it to me. There was now no more convincing myself that he had forgotten about it, or better yet, that it hadn't happened. I stammered something about needing to blow my nose. I got up and booked it towards the ladies room, where I shut myself in the stall and did about three minutes of EeewEeewEeew hand-wiggles. 

By the time I returned to class, another love song was well underway. After considering jumping out the window, I picked up my guitar and tried to play along.