Page 95 of Tell Me What You Want, Or Leave Me

“What, my dears?”

We glance at each other and shout in unison, “Azúcar!”

Two days later, when I call Sonia to see how it all went, she’s so happy. Máximo behaved like a gentleman, and Trevor Gerver and all those attending the party were speechless at the Argentinian’s gallantry and the rhythm of his hips.

The days pass, and my wrist is perfect. Eric and I love each other more every day, despite our continued arguments about work. Flyn’s happy at school. It’s a good year for him.

The only thing souring my existence is my beloved motorcycle. The day I confront the harsh reality, it makes me so sad, I just sob. My beautiful 2007 Ducati Vox MX 530 is in terrible shape.

When we get home, I don’t even want to talk about motorcycles. Eric tries to help make me forget and calls Marta and suggests she and Laila take me out to cheer me up.

So, a few nights later, I go party with them, and we end up at Guantanamera. Why do we always go there?

I’m sure when Eric finds out, he’ll get his boxers in a knot. He doesn’t like it because, according to him, people only come here to hook up.

Seeing us, Reinaldo greets me with affection, and I’m happily dancing to “Quimbara” with him in minutes.

The guy is a great dancer and makes me look good too. I’m not an expert, but, hey, I know how to move very well!

When Anita and Máximo arrive, he tells us about Sonia and what a great time he had with her. He asks me to dance later, and I accept. Máximo is like Reinaldo; he has a rhythm that can’t be stopped!

It’s hot, and I drink several mojitos. They are deadly, and I love them. I smoke a few cigarettes with Marta, and, for a few hours, I forget my motorbike and the arguments about work, and I smile again.

Around midnight, beautiful Björn unexpectedly shows up with Fosqui, the constipated poodle. We’re surprised to see them, and I watch as Laila quickly goes off to dance with some guy.

Björn gives me a couple of kisses on the cheek and asks, “What are you doing here?”

“Dancing, drinking, shouting ‘Azúcar!’,” I say, several mojitos over the top.

He laughs. The poodle doesn’t. “Is Eric here?”

“No...he doesn’t like this den of perversion.”

“If you were my wife, I wouldn’t like it either,” my friend whispers as he looks around.

I laugh. Another bore, just like his friend!

When the next song begins, I grab him by the hand and pull him to the dance floor. Wow...wow...this German keeps a decent beat.

The intensity of the song rises and, with it, our steps and our laughter.

The poodle dances with a friend of Reinaldo’s.

Then Björn leans into my ear. “It’s not a good idea for you to be out with Laila.”

“Why?”

“She’s not a good person.”

Hearing that, I remember we have a pending conversation. I yank on his arm again and pull him to the bar; I don’t care about the poodle barking. I order two mojitos.

“Tell me what happened between you and Laila.”

My handsome friend nods, takes a sip of his drink, touches his chin, and centers his blue eyes on me.

“Do you know Leonard Guztle?”

“No.”

---