Page 23 of Out of Office

“There is so much rich, undiscovered culture wherever we Black people live, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, my mom is very ‘let’s assimilate to survive,’ but one thing she always taught me is that we don’t share all the recipes outside of us, you know? I guess what you say about the Congos sounds like that.” It was awe-inspiring, how our ancestry seemed connected in a way that I wouldn’t have understood before without Adrián’s stewardship. No matter where we were, where we grew up, the similarities in our diaspora upbringings were much more than the differences.

“Yeah, that sounds about right. Come, let’s find you something to eat. I’ve noticed you’re a bear when I don’t feed you and get you caffeine early in the morning.”

“Excuse me, Señor Adrián. I wasn’t the one with the growling stomach yesterday after the second morning sheet tangle.”

We laughed our way to the small fonda by the shore, sitting down on the only table behind the fonda with a view to the sea. The Atlantic churned irately, and it promised to be a rough sea day. The owner was an older lady with a weathered smile and hips that told me the food would be delicious, and what seemed to be her adult son sang along to some Spanish song while serving us both hot coffees.

The man was beautiful, with a twinkle in his eyes as he placed the cups before us. Adrián’s attention remained on me, but I saw the admiring glint he’d directed to the retreating man. Mmmhey, I couldn’t fault him; the man was empirically attractive.

“So, you always have your coffee black?” Adrián asked me after taking a sip from the whitest cup of coffee I’d ever seen in my life.

“Yeah, always. I sometimes cut it with a bit of almond or oat milk, but most of the time, I need it black, and I need it strong. Gets me going during my long days. So what should I order?” We had started to play this game, and based on what Adrián observed I liked these past few days, he had been recommending meals to try.

“Mmm, today you should ask for the bistec encebollado and tortillas.”

“Alright, sounds like a plan. But hold up, isn’t encebollado with onions?”

“Yeah.” He sipped his milky concoction and sighed in excitement.

“So, will you still give me kisses even after I have my breakfast?” I asked boldly, surprising myself. These glimpses of Hot Girl Gen came here and there around him, but lately, more and more.

“Gen, onions will never stop me from wanting to taste your lips.”

“Good to know.” I winked at him.

“Would you still kiss me after I finish my cup of milk coffee?” he asked with an impressive rise of his eyebrow.

“See now, why are we taking things so far? I mean...if you like that drink you call coffee, I love it, but—” He sprang from his chair and pressed his luscious lips on mine before I could even laugh, and I sighed in contentment, tasting the sweet milky coffee drink on his tongue knowing I’d always want more of him.

Always.

Eleven

Genevieve

Everyone has dreams. Dreams of the perfect vacation, the perfect day, the most wonderful weather, the greatest connection with someone, back-blowing sex. Somehow all of this had happened to me in the past thirteen days. And I planned to walk away from all of it tomorrow.

The only thing I could do was ignore the pressure on my chest since last night when I started packing my clothes while Adrián sat on his sofa, his eyes tracking my every move. The quality of the silence between us had matured in the past two weeks from the awkward, nervous type to the “I still want to know all about you, but I’m okay just staring at you right now” type.

Now I sat here trying to capture the highlights of the visit in a notebook I’d bought on the trip we’d made to Portobelo from a street vendor who had offered it. I’d loved the intricate art on the cover. A deep need had awakened in me these past days. Instead of wanting to check my emails, I jotted down moments of the experience that I sought to remember, the feel of walking on the ruins of Portobelo while Adrián explained the history of the port from the appropriator Christopher Columbus to the pirate attack from Sir Francis Drake. The connection that stirred in me when seeing the Panamanian Congos dance in Palenque, their colorful dresses waiving under the sea breeze as women and men undulated their bodies to the rhythm of the handcrafted drums. Adrián attempted to explain more of their world vision, how the matriarchal culture had grown as a mix of Maroons protecting themselves in this area, marrying their West African roots with ways to mock their Spanish oppressors and their religion, creating full new and rich traditions.

In between that, my hospitality brain refused to shut down, and I wrote down observations of what would be ideal for a Black traveler like me to experience. I’d never use it, but who knew, if Tropics decided to do any developments on this side of the country, I would be well equipped to set up a manual for the hotel’s concierges. I probably should share some of these notes with Anita for her team whenever they made recommendations to travelers coming to the area for day trips.

Adrián had gone out for an hour to assist in setting up La Buenona for a party tonight, where they would bid a fond farewell to the excursion group that had arrived at the same time as I had. I offered my help as always but was shot down not only by Adrián but by Claudia, as well.

Lost in my musings, my heart leaped to my throat as I noticed Adrián hovering over me with a smirk on his face.

“I love that you’ve been journaling your trip,” he said and sauntered toward the bathroom. Thank God, he gave me time to think because a shirtless Adrián was still a shock to my senses. He emerged out of the restroom with a T-shirt on and his face still wet.

“What are we doing today?” I asked him, ready for whatever adventure he had planned.

“I thought a hike around the area, then I wanted to show you a special spot for me...” Adrián’s earnest gaze made me wonder what this spot was about.

“By special spot, are you showing me your sex place or something?”

Adrián’s face morphed into shock, then he vibrated in silent laughter as I sat there perplexed at what was so funny. I mean, I had meant it as a joke, but it wasn’t that good.

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