by Kilby Blades
"It's a load of hooey, that's what it is."
"Love?"
"Yes."
"That is even more cynical than I'm used to from you."
"Well, you hardly know me. And just because we work well together doesn't mean I've forgiven you for knocking me over."
"Not that again."
"I will forever hold that incident against you."
"Well, I suppose I will just have to find a way to make it up to you."
"And how would you do that?"
"Dinner? Drink? Coffee? Tea? Movie? Dancing?" Her eyes light up on that last suggestion. We have a winner. "Ah, you like to dance. I know a wonderful, slightly not-so-legal place that has the best music for dancing. Come with me."
"Diego…"
Without giving her a moment to overthink, I bring her hands to my shoulders then lightly hold her waist. I make sure not to place my hands too low or high, not wanting her to think I'm trying to take advantage.
We spin around the concrete in front of our stall, the deserted park our dance floor, with the other sellers too wrapped up in their own business to notice the magic happening in front of their noses. Rosie laughs as we twirl, and when I show her the basics to a salsa, she picks it up instantly.
"You and me in a dark club with music so loud you can feel it in your feet. It rises through the floor up into your shoes and your legs. It gives you and your partner wings so the world disappears, and you can only see each other. That is where I'd like to take you. Come with me, Rosie."
"I gotta admit, that sounds fun."
The wind picks up, blows a strand of hair into her face. I push it away, tuck it behind her ear. I don't move my hand when I'm through. Her skin is soft despite the harsh wind of winter. Her lips are parted as they look up at me, the full temptation of her mouth too inviting to ignore.
Her hands slide down to rest on my chest as our dancing slows. Heat bandies between us, let off by one and absorbed by the other. And in this moment, surrounded by the light of a setting sun and the heart-shaped kitschy paraphernalia of the nearby tradesmen and women, it's hard not to believe in the magic of Valentine's Day. It's hard not to pull her close when her lids lower intimately and her head tilts toward mine. It's hard not to meet her lips as she goes up on tip-toe, gripping my jacket. And it's hard not to kiss her with every inch of passion and need I feel for this lovely, stubborn, brilliant woman who doesn't understand the definition of love.
I will show her. No, I'll share it with her. Because even though I'm sure there is a reason for her to be so cynical when it comes to love, it doesn't mean she doesn't have space in her heart to discover it again.
Wind gushes past us, a cold bucket of frozen water over our fused bodies. A clatter and crash echoes behind us and I end the kiss, holding her close to see what it is.
"It's a garbage can," I say, looking down at her, eager to see how she's feeling after a kiss so heated I'm feeling slightly tight in my pants.
The expression on her face is anything but comforting. In fact, it looks like she just ate an arepa covered with stale and moldy cheese. In fact, she looks like she is about to hurl.
Good. I'm glad I've still got it with the ladies.
"I have to go." She steps back quickly, and as much as I hate to stop touching her, I release her instantly.
"Of course. Yes."
"That—that was. Um…I need to pack my things." She doesn't look me in the eye. The suave and fiery woman I've known the past couple days is gone, leaving behind a stuttering stranger who is tripping over her own feet and attempting to fit a foot-long frame into a purse that maybe when stretched to its limits would only hold a six-inch image.
When she continues to mutter and nearly throws a piece of art away, I can't let it go on anymore.
I've found the ever searched for Italian-American's kryptonite. A scorching kiss from a Colombian musician.
I take the frame from out of her hands, and she looks up at me in shock, as if she forgot I was even there.
"Can I help you? It will go faster if we work together. And it's getting icy out."
She sighs, seemingly at herself, then nods with a grateful smile that warms me from the inside out.
I help her pack up, and the silence between us is louder than the pounding of my heart when we were kissing. When the stall is clean, and our hot chocolate cups thrown away, we walk out of the park together.
"Can I take you home?" I ask when we reach the street, not wanting my time with her to end. "Are you far into Brooklyn?"
"No. I've got my car. I was able to get gas after the fair yesterday. Where are you living?"
"Queens. Jackson Heights."
"Right. Do you need a ride?"
"No. It's out of your way, and I need to head to my cousin's restaurant."
"You work there?"
"I am a proud dishwasher."
Her hand lands on my arm. "Nothing wrong with honest work."
I smile down at her, regretful that I ruined what harmony we found today.
"Goodnight, Rosie."
With a nod, I watch as she walks across the street and loads her car. There's a parking ticket on her windshield, but she glances at it, shrugs, then crumples it up and tosses it in the street.
I might be in love.
With a woman who apparently wants nothing to do with me, my dancing, or my kisses.
Rosie
A cacophonic sound of laughter, loud accented voices, and Italian phrases rise over the crowd of the fair. It can only mean one thing.
"Oh, shit."
"What?" Diego asks, looking up from the lunch we're sharing.
"They're here."
"Who's here?"
"They promised not to come, the lying bitches."
"Who?"
I reach over and grip Diego's wrist, wanting to apologize and run away with him all at once.
Yesterday had been a dream. A good, beautiful and ticking-time-bomb dream. The kind you indulged in for a minute or two then faced reality. Or at least, the reality I have constructed for myself with rules and limits.
No dating. Focus on the work. On the art.
I got to the fair this morning, expecting and hoping to live in that dream some more. But clearly, my weird-as-fuck reaction to his kiss scared him off. I couldn't help it. He kissed my socks off. I forgot the English language. Hell, I forgot the Italian language. I forgot what language even was. The only words I could speak were gibberish as I thought of the best way to jump his bones without him thinking I was some sort of hussy.
He'd been kind and sweet after my fumbling, and I let myself have the night to get over being a dumbstruck fool and then be the modern woman I am and ask the guy out for some dancing.
Then I arrive this morning, and the heat is gone. All that is left between us is polite distance and chatting. He doesn't want me anymore.
As if that's not humiliating enough. Now I have to face them.
"I'm sorry, but I told them all about you last night, and the kiss, but they promised they wouldn't come here and stick their ugly noses where they're not wanted. I'm sorry."
"You talked about me?" He asks, his gaze assessing.
"Yeah, I was like a school girl after a first kiss, I couldn't shut my trap."
"So, you liked it?" He asks, standing and taking a step toward me, eager and open in a way he hasn't been all morning.
"Of course I liked it, couldn't you tell?" I stand, meeting him in front of my display table. "I could barely form a coherent sentence."
His fingerless gloved hand cups my cheek, stroking me with a callused thumb. It's better than any heating unit I could ask for in this cold-as-hell park.
"I thought you were trying to find a way to let me down."
"What?" I hold his hand against me, not wanting to let go. "No. No. It was good. Really good."
"Rosie, would you like to—"
"Oh. My. God. Rosie. You didn't tell us what a hunk he is."
"You've been holding out on us, girl.
"
"I can't believe you've finally found a man after a five-year dry spell. Really, buddy, you might want to check if things are still working down there before you invest yourself."
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Ma would not be happy if I killed her other daughters.
"Diego, I'd like you to meet my sisters. Lisa, Nancy, and Barbara."
"Pleasure to meet you.” Nancy, the eldest and most stringent of the four Caputo sisters extends her hand. Her brunette hair is fluffed out to Farrah Fawcett perfection, and if her leather jacket were any tighter, it would be molded to her skin.
Diego, because he has to go the extra mile, doesn't shake her hand, but kisses the leather gloves over her knuckles.
"Ooh, so charming," Lisa squeals, sidling up to him. She’s the only blonde in the family because she insists on putting peroxide in her hair. "Are all Colombian men so debonair?"
"Lisa, get off.” Barbara pulls her away as she winks at me. I mouth a big thank you to my big sister.
In fact, they're all my big sisters, but Barbara has always been the most sensible and level-headed out of the lot.
"You gonna make a woman of our sister?" Barbara asks. "It's about time she settled down."
Except when she's a sarcastic asshole. What the hell?
"Barbara!" I yell-whisper at her. "Will you all lay off him?"
"What?" Nancy asks, stepping into the stall. "We got a right to see who's sweeping our sister off her feet."
"I swept you off your feet, huh?" Diego asks with a gleaming smile I'm about to smack off.
"Don't get too cocky. It was an okay kiss."
"Oh, really?" Lisa asks, her eyes twinkling with the light of the devil. "I thought it was so good you were ready to drop your panties for him then and there. Single digit temperatures be damned."
"I did not say that."
"Yes, you did."
"Don't listen to them," I growl at Diego.
"Actually, I would like to listen to more of what your delightful sisters have to say. Especially if it involves your panties."
"Hey!" Barbara points her menacing finger at him, the one that makes her kids quiver in fear. "Only we get to talk about our sister's panties."
A man in a trench coat and thick scarf steps up to the tent, he looks around with all the subtlety of a rhino before asking in a low, scraggly voice, "Did I hear you're giving out panties at this booth?"
Before Diego can even take a step forward to defend my honor, my sisters form ranks. Nancy shoves the creep out of the tent and Barbara and Lisa give him their best Brooklyn mother rants. The man is soon escorted from the park.
Diego watches the whole thing in fascination. "Your family is amazing."
"Amazingly obnoxious."
He elbows me playfully, his head tilted my way. "They love you. They protect you."
"I know," I say on a groan that can also be considered a sigh that only a person burdened by an annoying family can make. "They just…they want me to have their lives."
"What does that look like?"
"Husband. Kids. Baking cupcakes for birthdays. Baseball games."
"That's not what you want?"
"That's not all I want. I want my work. I want my art."
"You think it isn't possible to have both?"
"I know it isn't."
"Says who?"
"Life. The world."
"Again, with the cynicism."
"It's in my blood."
Customers pop into the tent and we get back to work. The day flies by, especially with all the tantalizing flirting happening since the panty incident. During a slow moment, Diego steals paper and some pencils and draws a rough stick-figure couple kissing with hearts above their heads. It's so awful, I can't help but laugh. He crumples the paper up and throws it at me, his bright smile the shiniest light in the park.
"Hey, Diego, c'mere." Nancy waves him over toward a bench they've parked themselves at, watching us like hawks throughout the day as they drink coffee and chow down on pastries and hot dogs. A combination only my sisters can love.
"Be right back," he says, squeezing my gloved hand before running off, kindly providing me with a delicious few of his tight ass. Oh, my Lord, it is fine. He's like a compact gift bundled in leather, musical talents, and just enough scruff to get my body sizzling. I'm surprised there isn't steam coming out of our tent from all the hormones and heat getting tossed around.
But even if I give in—even if we spend some time together past the festival, and we start something—it can't last. I won't get knotted up into a marriage like my sisters. I won't give up my dreams to have a family and kids. It's not a crime to not want to have kids…even though I really want to have kids and I'm just telling myself that because I love my art.
"Rosie, get your ass over here."
Diego and I switch places as Nancy beckons, the queen in a castle wherever she goes. As we pass, Diego's hand finds mine, and his fingers manage to locate a bare stretch of skin above my glove. The caress sends a different kind of chill across my body.
Thank God I've got heavy layers on, because if it were warmer weather, my nipples would be pointing themselves sky high.
"What?" I ask my sisters as they sit in judgment of me and my predicament.
"What?" Nancy demands. "How about, ‘What is wrong with you?’ That man is fine, and he likes you. Why aren't you asking him to get hitched?"
"We just met."
"Doesn't matter," she continues. "We've been watching you two."
"Yeah, I noticed because you'd whistle at him every time he bent over. Don't you miscreants have anything better to do with your time? Like, be with your children?"
"They're in school," Lisa points out. "And their fathers are at work."
"You could be at work too if you didn't marry the first men you dated."
"Hey," Barbara says, directing her finger at me. "Enough of that. We could still be at work if we wanted, but we chose our own paths. We wanted to be full-time moms. There ain't nothing shameful about that."
"I know, and I'm not trying to make you feel bad. I love your kids and husbands."
Lisa snorts. "At least one of us does."
I ignore her sarcasm. "But that's not what I want right now. I'm in a good place with my art. A couple of gallery owners have even stopped by and asked to see more of my work. But I can't be spending my time with some man and not focusing on my work if I'm really gonna make this a career."
"Honey," Nancy says, standing. "We're real proud of everything you're doing. But you gotta see, you're the only one putting these limits on yourself. These aren't the world's rules anymore. They come from a place of fear."
I bristle at the insinuation. "I'm not afraid of anything."
"We know, girl," Nancy says, hugging me close. "You're fearless as fuck, except when it comes to trusting someone to love you for who you are. And if anyone can do that, I kinda think it's gonna be him. See you later."
Lisa lowers her voice, "If you're smart, we won't see you until tomorrow."
"Hey," Barbara smacks Lisa's arm. "Don't encourage her." Barbara turns to me on a low voice. "Use rubbers."
"I hate you all. Please leave."
"Love you," they chime together as they walk out of the park.
"Love you too," I call back.
"Hey."
I turn, and he's there, bags full of my stuff in his hands, the tent fully packed up.
"Hey." Apparently, I am again incapable of speech and all he's done this time is say a one syllable word. In that sexy accent of his. With the stubble and the mustache and the leather and guitar strung over his back and, fuck, stop looking at him, stop looking at him.
He laughs, but it isn't unkind. I laugh too. This whole experience has been ridiculous.
"I meant to say hey, then I started to say hello."
"I understand. You speak my language."
He bends his head, and I do nothing to stop the descent of his kiss. His lips are smooth and warm, and the
tease of his tongue beckons just beyond my reach. We linger for a moment, relishing the taste and sensation a simple kiss can stir in a body.
"Kisses are weird," I say as we part.
"Huh?"
"I mean, we're just mashing our faces together and rubbing them around and lapping at one another with tongues."
"Oh, we can use tongues? Because I was holding back."
"Yeah, I'm cool with tongue."
"Great."
He drops my bags—gently—then pulls me against him, fusing our bodies together as tightly as we were the night before. Only this time, there's no hesitation, no wondering what's okay and what isn't okay. He goes for what he wants, and clearly, what he wants is to hold and touch and kiss me without reservation. And damn. It is good.
"Come dancing with me," he says on a breathless gasp as we separate.
There's no question in my mind of what I want. At least for this moment. For tonight.
"Yes."
Diego
We pack her car up and head to Jackson Heights. Queens isn't the prettiest of boroughs, not that I'd call New York City pretty at all, especially when compared to the gleaming shores of Cartagena, but it is a city full of life and sound made by man alone. The whispering of tree leaves is replaced with the clicking of heels on the pavement. The water lapping at the shore is now an elevated train rushing past my window. Some would say I've gotten the short end of the stick, moving to Queens, but I'm glad New York is now my home.
And with a lovely woman on my arm, I wouldn't have it any other way.
We head to Romeo's restaurant. He serves traditional Colombian fare mixed with some modern options like chicken wings and pizza. It's eclectic, to say the least, but the food—at least the Colombian food—is a taste of home.
I take her below the restaurant, to where the music is loud and thumping, like I promised. The room is small, and the music comes from a boom box rigged to connect to more massive stereos. None of it's legal, but it's fun as hell.
We shed our winter clothes, the heat from the dancing bodies more than enough to keep us warm, and for the first time I see Rosie without the layers of scarves, gloves, and coats.
"You are beautiful," I tell her, marveling at the curves of her hips, the sexy shape of her ass as it moves beneath jeans with the word Sassoon stitched over a butt pocket.