Como estas?

So the thing is, I just got back from holiday in Majorca with my wife and my two kids. My boys, eight and eighteen, they can speak Spanish now, they think. My oldest can order beers from the bar, and tell the cute teenage local one table next to us that he was too cold, and he thought her eyes were brown. My youngest can yell, Hola! Now that we’re home, he’s said it to me, his mother, his brother, our dog, and the oven. Only the dog acted incredulous.

The thing is though, my wife enjoyed it too. She’s on the sofa and glowing with her new Spanish handbag and the £300 perfume we bought at the airport.

The thing is, my study is how I left it with a thousand stacks of printouts, and a thousand more in my inbox. Dust gathers on the arm and the lining of the seams of my filing cabinet. I don’t need to log in until tomorrow, but I feel better when I crack on early, the company needs me.

On the plane, my wife asked me why we couldn’t be like the married couple we saw in Majorca. Those two gorgeous humans with flat stomachs and full hair, they enjoyed a meal and kissed each other on the lips across the table. Then when the guitarist started playing, they stood up and slow-danced. Meanwhile, I flagged down the waiter, sorry, the camarero, for more tissues because the eight-year-old just vomited on his mac ’n’ cheese and my wife had some on her silk dress.

On the flight back, I said because we’re not kids anymore, and she said, You always say that when I want to have fun. I just want that. All I want is that.

I tell her we can go again next year to see them again, because obviously they do it every night.

She hasn’t spoken to me since.

I picture her mother and father and grandparents and ancestors spitting their stomachs down on whatever the fuck it is I’m doing. My mum in heaven stands in the corner telling me I’m doing my best.

The thing is, I could have been better then, I think, back in 2012, when she called me a loser who couldn’t pull her out of the bath and pat her dry with discount tissues.

I held her hands in my hands and cried with her.

Maybe in one life I had muscles and tan skin too. Maybe the way I was raised by my mum and dad stopped me from taking my wife’s hand and offering her a dance.

The last time, when she rolled in the ambulance and screamed she didn’t want it, I told her that we can manage like we always have. I don’t think flamenco could have solved that.

When my eight-year-old walks in on me staring at the wall, I smile and say, Hola. Como estas?

Pero no entiendes.