Page 41 of Amor in the 305

Amaury takes my hand toward the area where the fruits are displayed and picks up a large oval shaped fruit, then with his finger nicks the side of it, exposing a vibrant deep pink interior color. “Mamey, a tropical fruit.Batidowith this is the best.” A smoothie sounds really good right about now.

“This ismaracuyá,” he says, picking up a round yellow passion fruit.

“Oh, I’ve always called itparcha. I didn’t know it had another name,” I respond.

“Yguarapois made from this—” he lifts a sugar cane and brings it closer to me “—caña de azúcar.”

“What do they do with the sugar cane?” I ask.

“Put it in the machine and make juice,” he responds, matter-of-factly.

“What do you add to it?” I inquire, confused.

“Nothing.” He places the sugar cane back onto the shelf and we gait back to the counter where Eduardo and Melida are ordering.

“Pure sugar? That sounds super sweet!” I crinkle my nose.

“It’s not that bad.”

“What did you get, Mel?” I ask.

“A fresh pressed orange juice. What are you getting?”

“I want to try the passion fruit juice.”

Amaury orders my juice and he orders himself aguarapo.

“Guarapohelps make you strong,” Eduardo adds, and throws his head back in laughter.

I don’t really understand the joke, but that’s a common theme when I’m with Amaury and his friends.

“What does he mean, it makes you strong?” I ask Amaury.

His lips graze my ear and he whispers, “En la cama.” My heartbeat quickens at his words.What is wrong with me?

“What’d he say? Why’s it make him stronger?” Melida asks.

“Supposedly makes his manhood stronger,” I respond, lifting my shoulder while smirking.

“Well, in that case, maybe you should have one too, Eduardo,” Melida adds, grazing his arm.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Amaury

A few days later

We decide to meet at my favoriteventanita, a window where you order and consume the coffee in many of Miami’s locales, to grab acafecitoandpastelitosbefore heading out for the day on our scooters. Drinking Cuban coffee is an integral part of my day, with me drinking at least six or seven every day. In Cuba I didn’t have the luxury of drinking coffee, mostly because my father couldn’t afford it. But once in Miami, it quickly became my drink of choice.

Cuban coffee is an espresso sweetened by adding sugar to it as it’s expressed through coffee grinds and brewing. The perfectcafecitohas a thickespumitaat the top, which is the perfect blend of the thick foam of tiny bubbles from the freshly brewed coffee and the sugar.

When Sol asked if I wanted to go for a scooter ride, I was ecstatic. Anything to spend more time with this gorgeous woman. She’s not shy, yet she’s reticent, doesn’t talk about herself much and guards the personal details about her life.

When I pull into the spot next to Sol’s scooter, she’s leaning on her Vespa with her left leg extended out, the entirety of her leg taunting me from ankle to hip. She’s wearing high-waisted jean capri pants, a tank top, andchancletason her feet. Wearing flip-flops to ride on the scooter is extremely dangerous, but she probably doesn’t know that since she’s new to all of this.

“Hola muñeca,” I say, and softly kiss her cheek, the skin smooth and warm under my lips.

“Hi.” She lifts her wrist to check the time. “You’re late!”

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