Page 4 of Hula

“Yeah.”

“That’s Paula, the instructor. Is there another woman with her?”

“Not that I see.”

Spoke too soon. A woman is walking into frame, up from the shore. A few of the kids wave.

“Oh! There she is. She’s a woman alright.”

I need time to process the sight. First of all, she looks like every man’s wish and mine specifically. About 5 foot 7 or 8, legs that go on forever. Tiny fucking waist. Can’t see the ass, but I expect another positive review. Arms gracefully loosen wavy dark hair from a bun held tight by chopsticks. The breeze lifts an escaping tendril from her face and it dances in the air. She’s exotic looking. Hawaiian and Japanese maybe. Something else.

I like the low riding blue leggings and the matching top that stops right under her boobs. Those are nicely sized. Leaning toward small. I could cup those cups and be perfectly happy. The skin looks the color of sunlit honey. Her expression is joyful. The whole thing might be a figment of my imagination.

I step away and pull up a chair. This requires my full attention.

“I take it the lovely Leilani has showed up.”

“You know her?”

“I know everyone and everything that happens around here. Have you forgotten?”

No time for answering rhetorical questions. And that one was a little snarky. There is a beautiful woman to appreciate. She joins the group and a conversation begins. She speaks to an audience, because even from here, I can tell she holds their attention. The boysandthe girls like being around her. I get it. They probably want to be her or imagine her in their sexual fantasies. I was thirteen once.

“She has a boyfriend.”

Lifting my head, I meet my mother’s gaze.

“Of course she does. I’m just window shopping.”

“Good.”

The inflection in my mother’s voice is heavy with meaning.

“Why do you say that? I thought you wanted me to meet someone.”

“You know why.”

Nani Medina pretends to hold steady with her opinions of mixing Hawaiian blood. Never mind she herself made the choice to marry a haole and so did I.

“Are you forgetting you married an Italian and I married an Irish and French girl?”

“I am not talking about your father or Jody. They were the blessings of our lives. I just believe going forward you and your brothers might think about the future of our bloodline.”

“Now I’m having more children? Quite a fantasy you’re putting together, Mom.”

Muted applause and whistles pull my attention, and I turn back to the scope. Leilani stands in the middle of the circle with one of the girls, and they are dancing in the sand. Hula dancing.

“Oh hell yeah. She may be haole, but she dances like a kanaka maoli.”

Behind me, the recliner’s mechanics sound as the footrest is lowered. But I cannot look away from the show on the beach. The young girl tries to mimic each gesture. The woman though. She moves with such loveliness as the story is told, it stuns me silent.

Even in leggings, hair bound, and with mostly disinterested strangers outside the circle, it is performed perfectly. I can’t hear the music being played. The woman slowly moves away, sits back in the sand, and lets the young girl have the stage and attention. I want more.

“Wow. Have you seen her dance, Mom?”

Crickets. I look up to see the back of my mother, turning down the hall. An idea springs to mind. I get up, run a hand through my hair and check my image and teeth in the mirror by the front door. Shit. Peeling off the t-shirt that doesn’t do me any justice, I make for the laundry room and the pile of clothes folded this morning. I drop the jeans and replace them with board shorts. Grabbing the white tank that shows my shoulders and arms to a better advantage, I pull it over my head. A few bicep curls with the detergent and bleach containers fools me into thinking my muscles look bigger. A quick check to see if my pits smell.

“Mom, I’ll be back! I’m taking Kanaka for a swim. Do you need anything?”

---