I'm fine. Really, I'm fine.

"Miiii-yaaah!" Consuela squeals from behind the bathroom door. I stop writing for a moment; on the off-chance that she has defied the laws of quantum physics and fallen into the toilet.

Silence. The toilet flushes. The Lysol sprays for a good minute. The toilet flushes again. The tap turns on to wash her hands (good!) and the door opens.

She shuffles out with an Us Weekly pressed against her chest.

"MIA!" she exclaims, giddy and with a flush of rose on her cheeks from the excitement (or the straining). "MIA! I just red in de magazeen dat de Julia Robertz, she no have a huzbind until she was a 35 years old. And now, she has de huzbind and de tree babies!!!"

Is this what a broken record sounds like? I say to myself quietly. It never ceases to amaze me how concerned Consuela is about my pending spinsterhood.

She brushes past me, gives me a big juicy kiss on my forehead and begins to hum; all the while shuffling around the room -- as if she's dancing with the good news that US Weekly has provided: that there is still hope for me.

"I know," I say rather calmly; trying to mitigate any false hopes she may be conjuring at this very moment in time. I don't have the heart to tell her about all of Julia's near-aisle misses, broken engagements, and one previous divorce.

"Iz good news, no?" Consuela prods. She's standing beside me now. I haven't moved from my desk so she's taken this rare opportunity of a height advantage to get me to agree with her.

"You know what I think good news is...", I start "good news is all the beds made before Jesus y Lilliana comes on in the morning. Good news is you filling up my coffee cup when you see it's empty. Good news is that the man across the street using the jackhammer would suddenly come down with a bout of nausea. That's good news!" I snipe. I'm not really in the mood for Consuela this morning. I haven't even had my second cup of coffee yet -- and the jackhammer right outside my window is slowly driving me insane.

"You are no happy Mia becuz nobody loves you", sulks Consuela as she grabs the swiffer and walks away. I feel bad. Maybe she's right. Maybe I'm just a bitter useless excuse for a human being because I am currently (and hopefully temporarily) lacking a vital component from the essence of our existence. I have no one to build up; and no one to build me up. It's palpable.

I take a break from what I'm writing and head to the kitchen to fill up my coffee cup. I look on the fridge at old photos from years past. I haven't replaced any since digital cameras came into existence. All my memories are locked in the hard drive on my computer. I see younger photos of myself with family and friends.

I am loved...but maybe Consuela has a point. Maybe there is something to her stupid telenovellas that have women and men ripping their hair out for the object of their desire. In the world of telenovellas love is everything -- and only validated by the extent of the betrayal. To love is to be betrayed. I guess it means you risked everything.

But what do I have to risk at this point? Every time I step out of the boat two things happen for certain; a) I sink, and b) I drown. Stepping out of the boat has given me a lot of experience but no real rewards. I can't pour myself into another person, so I pour myself into stories. The characters I create live through me and for me. I've mitigated the circumstances the best way I know how.

I take a sip from my coffee and decide that I should probably go and apologize to Consuela. I start looking for her. It's hard to find her when she isn't watching a telenovella -- and with the jackhammer blaring across the street my powers of perception are a little off-kilter.

"Consuela?" I call her name. "Consuela?"

I turn the corner and there she is; head down, silently sobbing on the corner of an unmade bed. I approach -- throw the cover over and sit down beside her. She won't look at me, so I lightly grab her chin and turn her to face me. Her cheeks are wet from the tears that she hasn't had a chance to sop up. I reach for a tissue and hand it to her. She dabs away at her cheeks, but her eyes are low. She can't face me.

"What's wrong?" I ask her.

"Why duz nobody wanna love you, Mia? It duzint make no sense...", she begins to sob heavily and the only way that I know how to stop the heaving is to wrap my arms around her and pat her hair.

"It's ok, I'm fine. Really, I'm fine" I tell her.

"NO!" she says with the full fever of her beloved telenovella heroines, "NO! Mia, you are NOT fine. You have de broken heart. You have de broken heart!"

There's nothing I can say. She sobs louder than before. I take a deep breath. I didn't realize that my situation was affecting her this much.

"Look at me," I say. She turns begrudgingly. When we're near to making eye contact I continue, "Look, Consuela, I don't know why I haven't met that person yet, but I do know that maybe it's better to have a broken heart and walk away from the wrong person, than to keep a broken heart and stay with them."

I'm not sure if I'm really making any sense to her, "does that make any sense?" I offer as a condolence.

"But Mia, I see you...every day yer broken heart - it makes you angry to me all de time. I don't hear you laugh like before. I worry dat yer broken heart - I worry dat it poison you!" she says and begins to sob even louder.

I grab both her hands, including the one with the tissue that is filled with snot and say, "You know Consuela, sometimes a good thing comes from a broken heart. Sometimes when it heals it becomes better, and stronger. And wouldn't that be nice? Wouldn't that be a wonderful thing? To love someone who really deserves my heart with a better and stronger heart? Don't you think?"

I see that I've offered her some condolence; at least for now. She'll never feel fully content until I'm whole again. But that takes time. So, in the meantime, I'm going to try and make more of a valiant effort to be a bit nicer to her -- because she does worry about me. And maybe, she has good reason to. But I don't have the luxury of getting caught in despair. I have no choice but to heal. To move on. And hope that eventually, when my heart is stronger -- that the right person will come along.