Love at first drink was probably too much to hope for. But two glasses into a carafe of sangria, Alejandra was flirting and asking if I had a “serious” girlfriend. Five glasses in, she was wild-eyed and slurring: “Honey, te amo.”
We hailed a taxi outside Las Bóvedas. Alejandra slid across the seat and said she wanted to come home with me. I was happy. I was scared. I was thinking: why the fuck don’t I have Viagra and ecstasy on hand for situations like this?
Of course a real writer would’ve already left the city. He’d be pissed on rum, and hacking his way up the Camino Real. He’d be following the faint echo of Drake, Morgan, and thousands of long dead cimmarones.
The thought kept nagging at me. If I was really committed to living dangerously, what was I doing here? Relationships were trouble, money tight, love fleeting, and trust always seemed to end in betrayal.
Still, there was much to like about this ninety-five pound Colombian. She’d survived hard times. She laughed easily. She was beautiful and aroused and she wanted to come home with me. Surely this wasn’t the time to discover testicular discipline.
Such were my thoughts as our taxi rolled through the city. From Casco Viejo to Cangrejo the streets glistened as if they’d been dusted with silver foil. In front of my building I opened an umbrella. Alejandra leaned in close as she stepped from the cab.
I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. I wanted to savor the moment: the fresh scent of tropical rain, the excited sounds of water falling on cars and buildings, rushing down gutters, the frothy runoff, gurgling, flushing the street, the palms writhing in ecstasy above us. It was all so perfect.
I opened my eyes. Alejandra was on tip-toes. She arched her back and kissed me. I could taste sangria on her thick lips.
By Cojito @ Panama After Dark