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She was Latino by B.P.Smythe
The restaurant evoked the Mediterranean. Aromas of Tapas, wild olives and cigar smoke hovered thickly in the air. Fishing nets clothed the walls, interrupted by cork floats and lobster pots. Spanish high backed chairs stood on sentry around long oak tables.
She was Latino petite. Her long black hair laid on her dark soft shoulders. The split up her dress revealed a tanned slender thigh. She smelt of Jasmine and Channel. She laughed in conversation with people, and the sun burst into the room. Her voice, a soft Latin accent, danced on her manicured lips.
I smiled, and while talking our heads nearly touched. I fantasised of leaning forwards, kissing her on the cheek. Just to touch her. To fondle her neck. To feel her soft tongue inside my mouth, would be ecstasy.
The Spanish Guitarist sang in low soft erotic rhythms. His gold earrings glinted in the candlelight. He came to tables and performed to couples. Holding the woman’s gaze while he sang of love and sorrow.
I braved and asked her to dance. In her dreamy accent she accepted. I felt electrocuted with joy. She spoke, nuzzling my ear. I felt her body pushing into me. My blood was screaming. She whispered how she liked me. I was aroused, she could feel me, and I knew, she knew.
Then I saw the needle marks, close up under her sleeve. She looked up and caught my reaction. I pulled away, slightly wincing inside. I stiffened from our merged embrace. I smiled, pretending all was the same.
I excused myself to the washroom and vomited with disgust and tears.
When I returned she was sitting alone, her moist eyes pleading.
I apologised, urgent business…must go. But, perhaps tomorrow night? Both knowing I was lying.
A year later I came back. I saw her, in a party photograph on the restaurant wall. I enquired to a passing waiter. He stopped and gestured cutting his throat. Overdose! His words nailed into my brain.
Perhaps I could have helped her. Now I’ll never know.
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