by Guy Harrison
***
Elena and I drive across the Tuttle Causeway for two reasons. One, we want to get a lay of the land. Secondly, we’re hungry, and Elena recommended a really good Cuban place on Miami Beach.
“What was that at the cemetery?” I say as we approach the causeway.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she says, enamored with her hands in her lap again.
I look through the driver’s side window, frustrated that I can’t know more. I can feel Elena turn her attention away from her hands and place it on me.
“But it did feel good,” she says.
At the Cuban place, we critique the preparation of Elena’s favorite dish, arroz con pollo, judging it by its every detail, everything from the coloration of the chicken down to the seasonings used. Elena could really tell you a thing or two about Cuban food and its preparation. It’s good that she’s passionate about something aside from her work.
From there, we make our way to South Beach. It’s not a sight for children’s eyes. Not at night, anyway. All manner of things are on full display. People flaunt things that need not be flaunted. Even on a weeknight, you’ll find some tatted-up douchebag with his hat on backwards, driving a fluorescent green Hummer down Ocean Avenue. He does this with his oversized gas-guzzler’s windows down, moonroof open, and bass bumping. And I’d be remiss if I failed to mention the trio of twenty-somethings shaking what their mothers—and cosmetic surgeons—gave them as they stand up through the Hummer’s moonroof.
Elena and I park and trudge down to the beach itself, taking in its cool breeze while awash in the serenity of the waves eating away at the shore. We mostly lay in the sand in silence, separate like we were that night in Repentigny.
“Calvin,” she says at one point, “do you believe in destiny?”
“I did,” I say. “Until I joined the A of I.”
“Do you still believe what Richardson said? That we all choose the roles we play in life?”
“I suppose. What are you trying to get at?”
“Why are we the only ones doing this?”
I scratch my head and shrug. “I don’t know.”
“Like, maybe Valerie was supposed to infiltrate our branch. Maybe the three of us were all supposed to go our separates ways and go on our own journeys.”
“I could see that.”
I personally think it’s a reach, but she might be on to something. A part of me still believes that everything happens for a reason. If I follow that logic, then I was destined to join the A of I, I was destined to lose Ronni, and I was destined to end up with a deformed face. I think the jury’s still out on Nick, but I know that Elena and I have had our own life-altering journeys, both beginning when I was first hired. During the course of our journeys, I’ve learned about myself while Elena had to confront the constricting self she already knew. I think we both feel as though our journeys have come too late in life.
Returning to the rental car now, I notice a loud hubbub across the street. A small nightclub serenades those of us nearby with salsa music. Appropriately, the name of the establishment is Salsa. Inside, red, blue, and green strobe lights fill the club as silhouettes strut about the dance floor.
I look over at Elena, a smile on my face, just before opening her door.
“We can’t,” she says. “We should be getting back.”
I look at the time on my cell phone: 9:12. “Oh, c’mon. Just for a few minutes.”
“Calvin …”
“Elena …” I say, mocking her. “C’mon, you want to live life without a shield, right? Here’s your chance.”
She rolls her eyes before flashing a wide smile.
“Seriously, where in Philly can you get good salsa like this?” I say.
I take her hand and walk her across Ocean Avenue. Salsa has no bouncer at the front and charges no cover; one of the perks of coming to South Beach on a weeknight.
Inside, the zesty tunes being played by the salsa band take over. Neither Elena nor I can control our bodies as we involuntarily move to the rhythm of the music. The offerings of a piano, a few trumpets and trombones, congas, and a bass guitar force us onto the dance floor.
This may come as a surprise to you, but I can’t dance. Maybe it doesn’t surprise you. Be that as it may, I’ve never been shy about going on the dance floor. And in this instance, in the name of Elena Jimenez living it up a little, I’m certainly open to trying. Needless to say, Elena dances circles around me, shaking her hips and shoulders with fluidity. I dance like a gringo. It’s all good; at least Elena’s having fun.
Next, she takes my hands and starts salsaing with me, shaking her hips as she steps back and forth. I feel her body heat one moment and then a cool gush of air the next. Then, she holds me close to her, continuing to shake her hips. She puts one hand behind my head and the other on the small of my back. Not knowing what else to do, I follow suit. She then lifts her knee up to my waist and leans backward, her chest and neck begging for attention. Surprised, I almost let her go, but in one swift motion, I lift her back up, holding her body against mine.
As the music subsides, she slides her hair away from her face and shakes her head. She pulls away from me, wearing the widest smile I’ve ever seen on her face. “Damn you,” she says, smacking me on the chest.
At that moment, we decide that it’s finally about time we head back to the hotel. We get back in the car and drive back to Downtown Miami, mostly in silence. Shield or not, Elena is an introvert.
Back in the hotel, I walk Elena to her room, situated between Hamilton’s and mine.
“Thank you, Calvin,” she says, opening the door.
“Don’t mention it.”
She turns her back on her door, her hand holding on to the knob. “Goodnight.” Elena looks so beautiful. Pushed against the door, her hair encircles her face even more than usual. I consider going in for a kiss but think better of it. Things cannot escalate.
“Goodnight,” I say. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Wait,” she says as I begin to walk away. She takes the left side of my face in her hand and kisses my right cheek. Elena then steps into her room, maintaining eye contact until she lets the door close.
Perfect.
