MARCELO

In the night, the cadenced orientation of the strobe lights sketches
geometric trajectories in the dark room.
The icy condensation from the cocktail glass drips onto her fingers,
caresses her nail polish, grazes the side slit of her evening dress, and
evaporates before it touches the floor, the dance floor.
Her body, that of a femme fatale, stands between the clenched bodies
of the dancefloor. A beam of light pierces the darkness. It illuminates a
Mediterranean chest – stronger than the bridle imposed by the buttons
of his shirt – adorned with golden necklaces: symbols of faith turned
into instruments of seduction. Sin is the antechamber to holiness.
She turns around, that’s him: Marcelo. She had long heard about him.
Their gazes, perfect diagonals, get locked in the crowd. A cheeky smile
reveals a golden tooth, the lights a shrouded sex bursting forth. His
wink is a magnet. Often, words are a mere formality. Let’s make out.
Que rico
Que lindo
Te quiero