Have I ever told you how much I fucking hate relationships? They’re like being trapped in an absurd Kabuki play of coupling and artifice, where no means yes and yes means no, and stop is an invitation to keep going — unless it actually isn’t, of course — and running away means you want to be chased instead of given all the distance you apparently need, and “love” is a word that counts for everything and nothing at all. No wonder my most enduring relationship is with my right hand.

I thought it was different with Nooshin. Our relationship happened as easy as breathing. She was born without an inner bitch. Snarkiness and mood swings never afflicted her. Our conversations didn’t veer into the female dead zone of trash TV and celebrities and shopping and diets. And she put out.

Yeah, I should’ve said something right away, when she hit me with that accusation in front of the Museo de las Momias. “You’ll just dump me someday…” Standing there like a dumbstruck idiot wasn’t very rico suave of me. Where was the patented Nick Roberts comeback, the witty disarming line that makes her forget what she’s thinking? Or just an earnest denial?

But still, it was her fault for fleeing. Her fault, not mine. She should’ve talked it out with me, whatever it was. That’s what mature responsible people do, talk it out. Not madly sprint across a plaza like your boyfriend is trying to kill you and your unborn child. I mean, come on. What’s up with that shit?

That’s why I didn’t call her cellphone right away. The girl obviously wanted her space, duh. Let her call me — when she’s good and ready.

By noon she wasn’t good and ready yet.

Hours dragged off my watch. The sun turned into a bloody ball and sank behind the western crags. Sitting on the hotel veranda I finished the seventh half-assed chapter of my dissertation and began the eighth.

Finally I broke down and called her. I was half-expecting voicemail and half-expecting a tirade, but some Mexican kid answered. He claimed a tall gringa with the evil eye had come running along — “corriendo”, literally running — and paused just long enough to fling money at the neighborhood. Supposedly she also dropped the cellphone. I was like, nice try asshole. You pickpocketed her purse when she was guilt-stricken and doling handouts.

I hung up in frustration. It figured. Nooshin got out of my sight and started trying to save the world, one handout at a time.

Eventually moths swarmed the veranda lights and my laptop screen, and I retreated to our hotel room, and panic ate at me like acid. I was remembering her other bombshell — “I’m just going to go away” — and wondering if she meant it, honest-to-fucking-god meant it. Because there’s no telling with her. She’s the kind of brave that hovers between utterly fearless and just plain stupid.

This morning I woke up alone with a splitting headache and the Sahara in my mouth. After wading through empty Tecate cans to the bathroom and back, I called every hotel in Guanajuato, inquiring about a beanpole American chick with a crooked eye. Just to give myself something to do, you know? But her disappearance is sudden and complete and baffling, my own private Amelia Earhart.

That leaves me wondering if she slept outside on a bench somewhere, or found shelter with a sympathetic local, or hooked up with Beto…

I crack open a leftover Tecate from last night and contemplate our suitcase, lying in a corner. Her clothes are spilling onto the garish hexagonal tile, including the bras she doesn’t need. The plastic bag of dirty laundry is half-full of her stuff. Those strappy high-heeled sandals are waiting for her, just like me.

I marinate in remorse.

Nooshin. I said I loved you. Don’t you remember?