Oswaldo cupped my chin gently between his thumb and middle finger and lifted my face away from the light. "This," he said, and he touched with his index finger a spot on my exposed neck two inches below my left ear. "Here."
I looked at my reflection to where Oswaldo was pointing and giggled. Oswaldo regarded the red streak forming in the fading light and smiled in concert. "I think I am in love with you," he said.
***
We've just returned from five days in Fort Lauderdale, a last-minute Christmas gift to Greg and a well-timed escape from the suddenly frigid northeast of last week. It was a relaxing time by all counts, time spent lounging poolside and hot-tubbing with immediate and disposable best friends: David, Lorenzo, John, Antonio, Bob, and a host of others whose names have already begun to fade from memory, faces we're likely to never see again and who we'd long forgotten in the haze of frantic relaxation.
We're back to the city now, back from blue skies and temperatures in the mid-seventies, back from Atlantic breezes and friendly vacationers, back from poolside cocktails and burgers. We're back to a quiet apartment and an even quieter outside, welcomed by a gentle snowfall that's already begun to blanket the streets in white.
Thank you, Fort Lauderdale, for a wonderfully relaxing time. Thank you for the food, the fun, the laughter. Thank you for the balmy weather and the lazy conversations. And thank you gentle, playful Oswaldo, wherever you are, for my first Cuban embarrassment.
