Page 99 of The Hundred Loves of Juliet
“Who?” Sebastien asks.
“You don’t know Penélope Cruz and Javier Bardem?”
Sebastien shrugs.
The band ends the song and starts on another, this one slower but still with an underlying pop beat. Sebastien’s attention shifts from the movie stars in front of us to the clear night sky in the distance. Nostalgia clouds his expression.
I put my hand on his shoulder. “Do we know this song?”
He nods and gives me one of those smiles that’s both wistful and a little sad. “‘Cheek to Cheek’ by Irving Berlin. We danced to it in Honolulu once. But this is a different version,” he says as electric bass reverberates through the courtyard.
“Regardless,” I say, linking my arm through his, “let’s dance to it again.”
Sebastien doesn’t budge, though. “I don’t know if—”
“That was a different lifetime,” I say soothingly.
He stands still for a few more beats, lost in that amorphous in-between of lifetimes.
“Be here,” I say as I stroke his face. “Withme.”
The spot between his brows creases.
And then he comes back to the present with a pained smile and says, “Sorry, you’re right. Let’s dance.”
We thread our way through the crowd, which has grown bigger, to the dance floor. I wrap my arms around Sebastien’s neck, and his arms circle my waist.
However, the band’s cover of the song isn’t exactly the kind you sway slowly to. It’s…bouncier. Like romance on Adderall. So Sebastien and I kind of sway-bop to the melody, and the ridiculousness of it begins to seep into him. At first he tries to resist a real smile, but then I sway-bop more emphatically, and he can’t help it; he actually laughs.
I plant a fat kiss on his mouth. I love how he looks when he’s relaxed, when the past temporarily relinquishes its hold on him. The mirthful lines around his eyes crinkle, the tense planes of his jaw soften, and even his steps grow lighter. I want to bethisfor him, the reason he can unwind. I know it’s not possible all the time, but I will do what I can to make it often enough.
The song ends, and the lead singer leans into the mic. “This next one is called ‘Candy Taco Protest,’” he says in beautifully accented English. “It is, perhaps, profound. Or perhaps simply silly. You decide.” He grins at the crowd, then turns to the band.“Un, deux…un, deux, trois!”
Electric keyboard and drums blast through the speakers, and the guitarist and bassist hammer their instruments. The entire restaurant comes alive with the fierce pulse of the song, the floor vibrating, the wineglasses clinking, even the walls of the courtyard seeming to shudder a little under the beat.
“You were cherry to my lemon, I was sour to your sweet,” the singer shouts.
“Like oil and water, we were not meant to be.
You were sugar and gumdrops, I was potatoes and meat.
They do not go together, like boats in the street.”
Sebastien arches a brow at the lyrics. I laugh, pressing up against his chest. No, not profound. But the beat is good, addictive even. I can feel the intense rhythm of the drums and keyboards in my core, and every guitar riff like the rat-tat-tat of rain on my skin. All around us, arms fly, and hips swing. Sebastien nods along to the beat, despite his amusement at the lyrics. I close my eyes and let the song move me.
The singer shouts about bad love, about mixing chemicals into explosive combinations. The bassist joins in about the consequences of letting sweetness taint danger, of rust dulling a blade.
And then the chorus rides in on an irrepressible electronica wave.
“I hereby declare
Your sugar cube reign
Overthrown by the fellowship of tacos!”
“Everyone with me,” the singer yells, and the audience dances and sings back.
“I hereby declare
