cuba libre

I knew this would be good. Those who could take the heat were in for a special treat, a treat so few tourists enjoyed. I pointlessly wiped my brow. The thick, fog of the jungle clung their loose cotton and linen dresses tightly to their bodies. Yummy, I thought. Of course, the locals noticed about as much as my grandparents could see the overtly sexual tones conveyed in those 1950’s fuselage bras. They took the heat, and the broiling blood it brings, for granted – a part of the natural order of things.

And then I saw her. There was something special in the way she swayed. Not like the overly sexual, lilting swish of the others, beckoning a free drink or dance or nightcap. No, she moved with a more natural, luscious swirl that drew your eyes up to her soft smile, imbued with the confidence of romantic youth. I was going to need my A game.

“hey, baby. find what you’re looking for?”

Taken aback, her delicate lips slightly parted, “What makes you think I’m looking for something.”

“aren’t we all looking for something? why else are you here?”

“I’m meeting a…friend.”

She stepped back a bit, scanning the dance floor with a little too much intensity for credibility. I could sense the growing desperation rising up her shoulders, as she try to conjure an acceptable, polite escape. She had lost.

“we’ll you’ve found one. let’s dance.” and in a motion entangled our fingers and led her deep within the mass of flailing, musky flesh.

* * * * * * *

“I still remember that night,” she smiled broadly under the umbrella at Café Piccou. “I can always feel the way you looked deep into my eyes, your fingers tracing the outline of my swollen nipples on that silly, white cotton blouse asking, so…how does it feel to live?”