Page 21 of Mr Best Friend's Brother Grump

Han Solo is in a bar making a deal with some Aliens to get the Millennium Falcon back. It’s one of the best scenes. But I’m only half-watching the movie. I’m too conscious of my movements, my breathing. The outlandish sheer joy I have in being here, that I want to film to go on forever. So, when the end credits roll, I am overwhelmed by disappointment. The film is over. The popcorn bowl is empty. Legitimate time on the couch with Nathan has finished. No what?

Breaking the silence, Nathan says in the voice of Yoda, “Intermission time, it is, young Jedi.” He stands up and takes the empty bowl back to the kitchen. “The Force is massive with this one.” He lands the TV remote, his imaginary X-wing starfighter, on the kitchen counter and says, “What would you like now? Let me guess. A lightsaber fight?” Nathan grabs the remote, holding it like the hilt of a sword, and sweeps it around his head like a weapon, making raspy noises in his throat. Then, in the voice of Darth Vader, he says, “Princess Rosa. Are you hungry?” Lightsaber swooshes in a wide arc. More rasping. “I will look for sustenance.” More lightsaber swooshing. “In the far corners of the kitchen.”

Nathan’s performance has me curled up on the sofa in hysterics at this point. I can’t speak. It takes me a while to control myself. “I'm not super hungry, Mister Vader, Sir. But you know. I could eat something. How about I call you Darth? What do you have?”

“Nope. You may call me Lord Vader, Earthling. Or Your Mighty Eminence. Either one will do.” Nathan opens and closes cupboard doors, reading out names from labels on cans in his own voice. “There’s not much really. I’m not one for grocery shopping.” He laughs, then opens the freezer. “Ben & Jerry’s? Ahhh, Kendra must have bought these. I know I didn’t.” Nathan looks across to me, then lines up the ice cream tubs on the counter, labels all facing the same way, equal distance apart. “We have Phish Food, Choco-lotta Cheesecake, and Cookie Dough.”

“Wow! Yes please!” I say, already on my way to the delectable frozen deliciousness: three of my favorite flavors. I settle myself on one of the stools at the counter. Nathan hands me a spoon from the drawer. “All we need now, to make things extra super perfect, is music.”

“Of course,” Nathan says as if he’s had a spiritual epiphany. He darts for the remote and presses some buttons. “Let me know if this is okay?” The apartment is filled with ‘Chan Chan’, the opening track of one of my all-time top ten albums, ‘The Buena Vista Social Club’ movie soundtrack, from years ago. I watch as Nathan prizes the lids off the ice cream tubs. Each one is about halfway finished.

“Ah!” Nathan looks me in the eye. “I bet you are an ice-cream tub half-full kind of girl.” He grabs the Phish Food and scoops up a luscious brown wave. “As opposed to an ice-cream tub half-empty kind of girl.”

“Sure am.” I pick up the Choco-lotta Cheesecake and spoon a scoop, relishing the decadence. Nathan comes around and sits on the stool next to me.

“I remember my grandma playing this album when I used to go visit… when I was little.” I swap the Choco-lotta Cheesecake for Cookie Dough and dig my spoon in.

“It’s a classic. I love it.” Nathan curls a swirl of the Choco-lotta Cheesecake. “So, where’s your grandma? Not Cuba, I’m guessing.”

“No. She lives in Miami. My dad is from Havana and my mum is from Minnesota and I was born in Chicago.”

“So,” says Nathan swapping ice-cream flavors. “You grew up in Chicago. You went to law school, where you met Ken. You decide that it’s not for you, so you come here to New York.”

“Ummm, yes, but you missed out the bit where I stay with my grandma.”

“And how was that?... Coming from Chicago?” Nathan says before grabbing the Phish Food tub from my hand. I pretend to wrestle it away from him, before releasing it, theatrically.

“Well, Florida. It’s hot most of the time, so I had to adjust to the climate. But staying with my grandma was great. She is a cool lady. She taught me all about my Cuban self.” I swap tubs and scoop out some Cookie Dough, careful not to lose any yummy chunks. The warm Caribbean island rhythms swirl around the apartment, instantly transporting me away as I savor mouthfuls of delicious ice cream. My body starts moving without permission.

“And is that where you learned to dance?” Nathan licks his spoon.

“Uh-huh. Yup.” I shovel a scoop of chocolatey heaven into my mouth, almost missing. “I can show you.” Wiping my hands on a tea towel, I hop down from the stool and stand in front of Nathan, hands on hips. “Nathan. Ven.”

Nathan shakes his head, smiling. “No. I can’t.”

“What? Have you even tried?”

“No. But I know I can’t because I don’t have a Cuban self.”

“That doesn’t matter…” I say, laughing. “C’mon. I’ll be gentle.” I hold out my hand to Nathan. He hesitates then stands and takes it in his.

“Alright, you hold my hands like this.” I place Nathan’s hands, palms up to receive mine. “Now, watch my feet. When we start, the man - that’s you - always steps forward with the right foot and the lady - that’s me - steps back with the left. Then, back. Yep. And I’m forward. Yeah. You got it.” Nathan’s body is stiff and mechanical as he follows my instruction. “Alright, you got to shake all that tension out of your body. Loosen up, yo.” I release Nathan take a step back and wobble like a jelly, shaking my arms and legs, so that everything jiggles. “You can’t expect your body to respond to music if you’re holding on to any kind of… rigidity, you know, in your mind.” I don’t know how else to express it. “Go ahead, shake it all out.”

Reluctantly Nathan shakes an arm, then the other. He wobbles his head and rolls his shoulders, then says, “You better not be filming this, Rosa.”

I laugh and clap my hands. “Right, you’re good and loose now. Let’s have another go…”

Chapter 18

Nathan

We are salsa dancing in my kitchen. Or rather, Rosa is doing her best to teach me, and I have as much Caribbean rhythm as the wooden stool that I’ve pushed aside to make space for us. The ice cream is all gone apart from sticky puddles of brown and cream. The spoons, licked almost clean, are discarded in the sink.

I feel giddy with music and the sugar-fueled rush. And the sexy, luscious Latina who is patiently talking me through the steps as if I am a child. My coordination is all over the place and I have lost the ability to tell my left from right and I can’t count to eight.

I hold up both hands and beg to be released from the torture. Rosa is laughing at me.

“You just need some practice. That’s all,” she says, although I know she is probably lying.

---