German-speaking kids in the bigger swimming pool, in the care of a large male tossing them around in the water like beach balls; at the tables, foreign tourists, down-at-heel locals, one Middle American tourist couple, a handsome Latino sitting alone talking into a cellular phone. There was no sign of Miami Beach’s affluent Jewish crowd.
The two-man restaurant staff was straight out of central casting: the waiter fat, the cook skinny; the cook hairless, the waiter nothing but hair, head, face, chest, legs, and arms; the cook totally silent, the waiter garrulous, about himself, where he came from, where he hoped to be going, the food (which smelled unexpectedly good), the weather, the state of the sea, the full moon that had come shining up out of nowhere. Cook and waiter were both half naked to stand the kitchen heat: shorts, sort of underwear vests wet-sticking to the skin, the waiter’s long hair in a ponytail tied with a long red ribbon, the cook’s bald head partially bound in what looked like a used handkerchief.
Jenny inquired politely of the lone Latino if she might sit with him. He inclined his head in a yes, never leaving off the phone conversation. From the friendly, talkative, fat, hairy waiter she ordered a salad called Tropic Fantasy. It cost $6.35, and when it came was quite beautiful and deliciously fresh, fruits and nuts on a bed of mixed greens.
The Latino put through call after call, some in English, some in Spanish, about a deal so complicated she could not follow in either language. He was Cuban, dropping vowels and consonants freely in both languages. “Nahyea,” he kept cautioning. “Don tell noboda. Nahyea.” Not yet, probably. As she was finishing her salad, a deeply tanned blond American young woman in a dress that barely covered her slim, bosomy torso joined the Cuban. She had an infant on her flat hip, a little girl as dark as her father. Lovingly, he took the child on his lap while repeating the message, “Don tell noboda. Nahyea.” He must have made twenty such calls before Jenny settled her bill and left.
The bed surprised. It was comfortable. She kept the windows closed and the air on, trading one discomfort for another. It was a hot night. Heat made her horny. Cold made her horny. Memory made her horny. Music made her horny. Eighty-year-old women weren’t supposed to feel horny. They were supposed to be serene, wise, resigned. But here she was, raging in bed, for love, for lost love. At eighty. Grieving. For the loss of her husband of forty years. Nobody believed in that. One love. The love of one’s life. She felt a fool talking to anybody about her love for him. Anyway, he was dead and gone. The man she had left her first husband for; the man she had endangered the safe lives of her first two children for; the stepfather they resented, admired, loved, and sometimes hated; the father their shared son loved, admired, resented, and sometimes hated; the man she had lived with, worked with, laughed with, quarreled with, shared every penny with, his or hers; the man she shared bed and board with, day and night, mind and body. Could you call missing all that being horny?
She was suffused with the memory of a night in Florida, in a sleazy place in Clearwater much like this one. She couldn’t remember why they were so lucky as to be there alone. No kids—not the two older ones or even their younger one. Probably all left in the care of Grandmother, Abuela, in the larger sleazy place up the beach they had rented for the whole family and a cousin. The Cuban side of Paul’s family was jammed with cousins.
One night, one lovely undisturbed night with the love of her life. They had shrimp for dinner at a restaurant on the bay. Then a leisurely walk to the beach, jabbering away. They were both big talkers. Paul had reserved a room in an odd round structure originally conceived as a tropical paradise resort. Built in the twenties, it had bedrooms overlooking a circular court that boasted
The two-man restaurant staff was straight out of central casting: the waiter fat, the cook skinny; the cook hairless, the waiter nothing but hair, head, face, chest, legs, and arms; the cook totally silent, the waiter garrulous, about himself, where he came from, where he hoped to be going, the food (which smelled unexpectedly good), the weather, the state of the sea, the full moon that had come shining up out of nowhere. Cook and waiter were both half naked to stand the kitchen heat: shorts, sort of underwear vests wet-sticking to the skin, the waiter’s long hair in a ponytail tied with a long red ribbon, the cook’s bald head partially bound in what looked like a used handkerchief.
Jenny inquired politely of the lone Latino if she might sit with him. He inclined his head in a yes, never leaving off the phone conversation. From the friendly, talkative, fat, hairy waiter she ordered a salad called Tropic Fantasy. It cost $6.35, and when it came was quite beautiful and deliciously fresh, fruits and nuts on a bed of mixed greens.
The Latino put through call after call, some in English, some in Spanish, about a deal so complicated she could not follow in either language. He was Cuban, dropping vowels and consonants freely in both languages. “Nahyea,” he kept cautioning. “Don tell noboda. Nahyea.” Not yet, probably. As she was finishing her salad, a deeply tanned blond American young woman in a dress that barely covered her slim, bosomy torso joined the Cuban. She had an infant on her flat hip, a little girl as dark as her father. Lovingly, he took the child on his lap while repeating the message, “Don tell noboda. Nahyea.” He must have made twenty such calls before Jenny settled her bill and left.
The bed surprised. It was comfortable. She kept the windows closed and the air on, trading one discomfort for another. It was a hot night. Heat made her horny. Cold made her horny. Memory made her horny. Music made her horny. Eighty-year-old women weren’t supposed to feel horny. They were supposed to be serene, wise, resigned. But here she was, raging in bed, for love, for lost love. At eighty. Grieving. For the loss of her husband of forty years. Nobody believed in that. One love. The love of one’s life. She felt a fool talking to anybody about her love for him. Anyway, he was dead and gone. The man she had left her first husband for; the man she had endangered the safe lives of her first two children for; the stepfather they resented, admired, loved, and sometimes hated; the father their shared son loved, admired, resented, and sometimes hated; the man she had lived with, worked with, laughed with, quarreled with, shared every penny with, his or hers; the man she shared bed and board with, day and night, mind and body. Could you call missing all that being horny?
She was suffused with the memory of a night in Florida, in a sleazy place in Clearwater much like this one. She couldn’t remember why they were so lucky as to be there alone. No kids—not the two older ones or even their younger one. Probably all left in the care of Grandmother, Abuela, in the larger sleazy place up the beach they had rented for the whole family and a cousin. The Cuban side of Paul’s family was jammed with cousins.
One night, one lovely undisturbed night with the love of her life. They had shrimp for dinner at a restaurant on the bay. Then a leisurely walk to the beach, jabbering away. They were both big talkers. Paul had reserved a room in an odd round structure originally conceived as a tropical paradise resort. Built in the twenties, it had bedrooms overlooking a circular court that boasted
Similar Books
