The evening

The evening. It was Saturday. 

I am the most beautiful girl in the room. The most beautiful in all of Puerto RIco. I am told every time I frequent here. It is not the truth, but nevertheless, the mouths that say it, genuine. The pool reflects purple and green. The night is perfect. The lights shine in the crystal of the champagne glasses and in the eyes of those searching to get laid. The music echoes from the lobby. I sit. My shirt. Intricate as it ties around me. Requiring no brassiere. Exposing my tanned back. Tight jeans. And unnecessary heels for my 5’11” frame. The weather, warm, yet not humid. The energy and laughter, effortless. Is this intoxication or good energy? The answer does not matter.

It is here where I feel admired. If only he knew, I so often think. But tonight, he is here too. Perhaps his eyes will see it, and he will think I am pretty, be grateful for the knowledge that I choose him. And I ponder, do I do so stupidly? He is just a few feet away, engaged in conversation. He watches me from the corner of his eye. At our cabana, the odds are in my favor. Enrique, Marc, Luis, Jorge and Benicio. I welcome the attention. But they are merely circles I dance around him, he the center.

His two athletes, akin to family, are too beautiful. Polite. Perfect. Dark hair and chiseled features. I cannot fathom them only 19. Yet, any older and they would be too aware of their power and I would be distracted. We want to dance. The expensive ambience too sophisticated for our desires. We propose leaving. After a round of drinks, Caballito says. An hour passes and we are on our way. But then the girls we picked up cause some disarray and need to stay.

An apartment soiree no longer so appealing. I suppose we are staying. Enrique, his athlete, his “brother”, comes to me and says, “will you drive us to our car?” He says it quietly, from a few feet a way. I know our cars are equidistant. My curiosity piqued. I will return I tell Caballito. Jorge, his bestfriend, offers me his accompaniment. I decline–not gracefully.

The athletes and I are at my apartment. The ocean pounding against the rocks. We are sitting. Vodkas. Talking. Horses. We speak about Caballito with no relationship significance. Aware of their loyalty, their kin, I wonder, were they flirting?—knowing Caballito has likened me to nothing? He’s gay they said. Or was it an interrogation, an attempt to gather fodder.

Enrique says, it’s time to go. The phone rings. It is Caballito. As Enrique leaves, he peaks into my bedroom. His eyes widen. My gigantic posted bed. A sea of white sheets. The ceilings high. The ocean. He sits . . . on my bed. I am not sure what then was said. 

 

To be cont.