The Cantina Where Her Skin is a River of Sun
The Scent of Copal and Mezcal
The afternoon sun hit the restaurant window, casting long, sharp-edged geometric shadows across the terracotta tiles. Gloria approached my table, her apron tied tight, her dark eyes flashing with a mischief that seemed older than the walls of the building. She had a habit of moving like water over river stones—fluid, unhurried, yet entirely purposeful. “What would you like today, Mr. John?” she asked, a smirk playing on her lips. She tapped her pen against her order pad, waiting for the daily spar.
“What I want isn’t on the menu,” I said, leaning back in the wooden chair.
She arched a brow, her posture shifting as she planted a hand on her hip. “You mean me?”
“Give me a shot of mezcal with the worm, dead or alive.”
Gloria hovered, leaning over the table just enough to let the scent of crushed lime and a hint of wild orchid wash over me. “For your information, there are no live worms in our mezcal. Don’t believe what you see in the movies. And we haven’t gotten our liquor license yet. Mr. John, what do you do for fun other than impersonating a bad hombre?”
“I write.”
My unexpected answer was translated upon traveling from her ear to her brain as I read.
“We all read,” she replied laconically, turning on her heel.
She crossed toward the kitchen, her steps rhythmic, but stopped in mid-walk upon my words.
“I write. I studied creative writing in college.”
Her boomerang maneuver took her right back to my table, her eyes narrowing with playful suspicion.
“Did you graduate from college?”
“Three times,” I replied.
She asked, “What were your majors?”
I said, “My master’s was in library science.”
She leaned on the table, her face inches from mine, her voice dropping into a teasing purr. “What system did you study, the Dewey Decimal or the dewy damsel?”
I laughed, a sharp sound in the empty dining room. “My best line is ‘Hey you look as lonely as I feel. Can I buy you a coca-cola on the rocks?’”
“So you are a near-beer kind of guy.” She shook her head, feigning disappointment.
“Gloria, when the heavenly bartender mixed my drink, he made it a Roy Rogers with coke and that cloyingly sweet grenadine syrup which weren’t the ingredients for romance.”
“Your celibacy is safe with me, John.” She winked, tracing a line on the wooden tabletop.
“Chastity lives on a pinnacle of rock where no birds sing.”
She straightened up. “Not too fond of chastity. But pinnacles of rock are pleasing to me. Oh, Mr. John, you are always surprising us. I hope it doesn’t disappoint you that I read romance novels.”
“That is what I write, romance. I’ve self-published. Would you like to read my stories?”
“Oh, I would love to! But alas I don’t have the money to buy your books.”
“I could give you complimentary copies. It is the least I could do for all the kindness you’ve bestowed on me.”
“Thank you so much!”
She limbered up like a Degas Ballerina. Each flex was a gymnopedie played on the Steinway of her body on her closer walk up to me where she faced me with her music. I loosened my silk tie to breathe. She wiped the tableaux of the remains from her day until the persistence of my vision was met in a Satie moment with her epicurean smile. She stood there for a beat, letting the silence stretch like a taut bowstring. She said, “36-29-38.”
“Gloria, what are you talking about?”
She laughed, a throaty, rich sound. “What you are ogling at, my figure.”
The Heart of the Ceiba Tree
Over the coming weeks, our banter became a ritual, grounded in the heavy heat of the afternoons. Gloria began to fill the quiet spaces between orders with stories of her homeland, Honduras. She didn’t just tell me about it; she dragged the dense, jade-shadowed jungles of the isthmus right into the diner. When she spoke, the air grew thick with the breath of the cloud forest; I could smell the bruised fronds of ancient ferns, the damp, breathing loam of the forest floor, and the sweet, intoxicating resin of copal incense curling like phantom serpents over sacrificial stone altars.
One day, while wiping down the booth behind me, she exclaimed out of nowhere, “I believe you are a secretly married runner of Ponzi schemes with a love child whose mother you pay hush money. Tell me, are you a grandfather?”
My, “I never had children” prompted her to ask, “Were you ever married?”
I said, “For twelve years.”
She stopped wiping. For a moment, she looked at me not as a waitress to a customer, but like a jaguar sizing up the river currents. She told me once about the Hero Twins, Hunahpu and Xbalanque, and how they outsmarted the lords of the underworld. She had that same trickster glint in her eye.
When Christmas approached, the air outside grew cold, but her inquisitiveness grew focused and more intense. She stood behind the counter and jabbed her finger at me like a police interrogator. “You were married for twelve years. What happened?!”
“She was much older than me. We were going in different directions.” On that note, I made an about-face and sailed out the door, the bell jingling a harsh goodbye.
The next day, she was all sunshine smiles and her lilt returned like a lost kitten. She said, “Oh, divorce happens all the time. I told everyone about you. Please forgive my curiosity but let me see your hand.”
Her softness enveloped me. The female touch never loses its mystery or newness. Her thumbs pressed into the calluses of my palm, firm and warm. She traced a line through the center of my hand. “Your lifeline is unto longevity what the path of lunar light upon the sea is at moonrise.”
As she said it, my mind was pulled south. I visualized the Honduran coast she had described to me a week prior—the dark, muscular waves of the Caribbean violently kissing the porous limestone cliffs, the moon rising massive and silver, a bruised pearl pulling the tide with a heavy, gravitational ache. I could almost hear the haunting, melodic cries of the potoo echoing through the veiled canopy of Pico Bonito, where the buttressed roots of colossal Ceiba trees anchored themselves into the earth like the gnarled, immortal fingers of sleeping giants.
When Gloria flamencoed across the floor, she was a fiery rose under the Honduran sun with her fandango smile that was pink from kisses in the heat of Mesoamerican love.
One day she stretched like a Jaguar in her faux leather pants with the fiesta of her pompas on parade. Then she pressed her thighs against my table, leaning close enough that the scent of cinnamon and warm skin filled my senses. She batted her eyelashes like palm boughs with Mayan love glyphs in her eyes and spoke. “Mr. John, have you lost weight?”
I replied, “Why yes, how nice of you to notice.”
Gloria said, “Well you must be passing it on to me. I have put on some pounds.”
“You look the same as always to me,” I said, keeping my gaze locked on hers.
She replied, “Well, most of my extra baggage is in my caboose. Of course, you don’t look back there. Oh, Mr. John, your poker face is showing.”
Her playful smile softened into something deeply nostalgic, her gaze drifting momentarily past me. “You know, Mr. John, back in Honduras, there was a hidden waterfall deep in the rainforest. The water plunged down moss-draped cliffs into a pool the color of jade. I used to hike out there when the heat was too much, strip away everything, and just bathe in the cool, rushing water.”
As her words washed over me, the walls of the diner dissolved into a mirage of hanging lianas and blossoming heliconias. I visualized the hidden cataract she spoke of—a ferocious ribbon of liquid silver plummeting from a mist-crowned precipice, carving its way through weeping walls of emerald moss and flowering bromeliads.
I pictured her stepping out of her garments, leaving them pooled on a bed of crushed orchids, and wading nude into the pristine, jade-green basin. The lush, ancient forest towered around her, a grand cathedral of green, whispering with the breath of the ancestors.
My senses were overwhelmed by the imagined symphony of the jungle: the rhythmic, guttural trill of hidden tree frogs, the distant, vibrant cry of a scarlet macaw, and the heavy, intoxicating perfume of damp loam marrying the sweet rot of fallen fruit.
My mind painted the scene with breathless, exquisite clarity. A solitary, piercing beam of tropical sunlight broke through the woven canopy above, illuminating the rich sheen of her brown skin. As she waded deeper, I watched the icy, crystalline water rise to embrace her waist. I envisioned the heavy cascade breaking gently over her shoulders, the rushing current braiding itself through her dark, untamed hair before tracing the elegant, curving architecture of her spine and spilling smoothly over the lush, rounded symmetry of her derriere like liquid glass over polished river stones. As she turned into the breath-stealing chill, the freezing touch of the living water kissed her chest, causing the peaks of her breasts to pearl into taut, exquisite rosettes, dark and proud against the biting cold. Blue morpho butterflies danced in the prismatic mist that plumed off the water’s surface, fluttering like detached pieces of the sky. As she arched her neck back, surrendering to the pure chill of the living water, the droplets clinging to her skin caught the sunlight, turning her into a shimmering constellation of liquid diamonds. She was an absolute vision, an untamed goddess of the rainforest, perfectly at one with the fierce and beautiful wild.
Rain on Limestone
Alas, it was closing day for the restaurant due to the coronavirus. The air was thick with uncertainty, but my book arrived just in time to present it to her before the lonely weeks ahead. She couldn’t wait and read a few pages right there by the cash register. Her tears came like orphans seeking a home.
She wiped her eyes, leaving a smudge of mascara on her wrist. “We may never meet on this earthly plane again. But here is how I want you to remember me.”
She took the barrettes out of her beehive hairdo. Her hair fell down like a magnificent hoop skirt, dark as the volcanic rock of the Copán ruins, wild and unruly. She handed her hairpins to me, the metal warm from her scalp. “To remember me by,” she said.
She leaned against the counter, her voice softening. “We’ve been talking about you.”
With her downward cast eyes, what began as a casual encounter became intimate with my, “I miss you.”
She turned ecstatic with her rainbow smile. “Oh, I miss you too. I can’t wait until all this is over with so we can talk more again.” She started swaying, tapping a rhythm on the wood, and sang a few lines from Don’t Cry For Me Argentina.
“Who are you singing that to?” I asked.
“You, it seemed to fit the moment.”
“Do I seem like a foreign country to you?”
“I meant it affectionately. What is wrong with being a foreigner anyhow? I am one, and one of my favorite rock bands is called ‘Foreigner.’”
“That group started before you were born.”
“You were in college before I was born. But in my book, antiques are more valuable.”
“Wouldn’t you rather have a fresh out of the factory Corvette than a 1960s Mustang, however well maintained?”
“They don’t make them like they used to.”
She moved closer, breaking the physical barrier of the table, and thrust her immigrant hands into the pockets of my jeans. I gasped slightly at the sudden, earthy intimacy. “Your pockets are warm and cozy. I’d like to take my siesta in one with your jelly roll for my pillow.”
She pulled away with a mischievous grin and proceeded to stuff my pants pockets with Mexican soft drinks from an ice chest of carbonated refreshments meant for the waitresses to cool off from the heat. She wedged a glass bottle against my hip, then put two drinks in my shirt pockets for good measure. The cold glass was a shock against my chest. But the root beer, lemon/lime, strawberry, cream, and cherry colas would be the sugar from the kisses she never peppered me with.
“With all that habanero spiced food you need soda to quench your thirst,” she reasoned, adjusting a bottle so it wouldn’t fall.
“The cherry cream of your smile and voice is the only drink soft enough to refresh me,” I told her.
“Do you have a video chat on your computer?”
“Sure do. Let’s meet in cyberspace. But I am conversationally challenged.”
“A man who has written books by the dozen is at a loss for words? I find that difficult to believe. I have something entirely different in mind. Staying on a healthy diet works better with a cooking partner. It requires the preparation of a variety of nutritious but tasty dishes. Otherwise, culinary tedium sets in.” She paused, tapping her chin. “But there is only one stumbling block. Though I don’t eat meat or chicken I do consume fish which I cook. So, I am a pescetarian. I presume you are a vegan since you only order guacamole and beans when dining here. So, I would never want to lead you into what you consider sin by tempting you with my seafood cuisine.”
I replied, “While we’re using religious lingo, let’s bring the Catholic sacrament of confession into this discussion. I dine on tuna and salmon for my private meals.”
“For joy! Then all my worries were for naught.”
“However, though I’m not Jewish I tend to follow a kosher diet which means no oysters.”
She clicked her tongue. “I only have them at the oyster bar along with a margarita.”
“I’m not so obtuse as to object to being in your presence while you enjoy them over your slushy.”
She grabbed the lapels of my jacket, pulling me down an inch. “Please, won’t you take a trip down Margarita Lane with me?”
“As a teenager, I did a paper route on a street called Margarita Lane.”
“Lol. Well then, didn’t you ever wonder about that mushy feeling that comes from having downed a few? That is since you walked its namesake.”
“You’ve sold me. Let’s get mushy together.”
One Month Later
The lockdown had been a dry, quiet expanse. My mind constantly wandered to the humid green cathedrals of the Honduran rainforests she had so vividly described. I imagined her walking barefoot among the moss-devoured stelae of Copán, where the stone faces of forgotten kings slumbered under the creeping vines. I pictured her invoking the ancient fertility goddess Ixchel, her laughter ringing like wind chimes through the heavy, vaporous jungle air, mingling with the metallic songs of the macaws. I visualized the rich, dark loam beneath her feet, the primal, physical elements of the earth grounding her every movement like roots anchoring a blooming canopy.
When the restaurant finally reopened for limited service, I practically sprinted there. I walked through the door, and there she was, holding a tray, her eyes widening in absolute shock.
“John,” she gasped, slamming the tray down on the counter. “The email you gave me sent back a reply saying, ‘Custom eulogies for your dearly departed to dress up those closet skeletons as endearing peccadillos for a person of otherwise sterling character to bring comic relief to the bereaved.’ Can you imagine how that shook me up?”
“My handwriting is atrocious,” I confessed, stepping closer. “You must have misread my email address and sent your message to an obituary writing company. Next time I won’t write in cursive.”
She crossed her arms, her chest heaving. “My first question upon showing up for work this past month was, ‘Have you seen Mr. John?’ They answered, ‘Not a sign of him.’”
“Oh, darling, I was worried about you too. Truthfully, I was quarantining. I should have attempted to get the word to you. I didn’t know if you wanted me to bring our closeness to the attention of the other waitresses.”
“Are you kidding me?” She threw her hands in the air. “They are laying odds on when you’ll ask me out. Fifty dollars is riding on the outcome. We are already an item in the kitchen. Inquiring minds, among whom I am one, want to know.”
“Well butter my butt and call me a biscuit!”
She didn’t laugh. Her eyes grew intensely serious, dark like wet obsidian. “I had a dream that the morgue called me to identify your body because I was the only close relation you had locally. So, I went there. They pulled open the drawer and there before me was your sweet face ashen in its pallor. They asked me if I wanted any of your belongings so I took your glasses with me as a last keepsake to remember you by. Don’t ever frighten me like that again.”
I reached out, taking both of her hands in mine. Her skin was warm, pulsing with life, smelling faintly of toasted corn and sea salt. “Gloria, you have my word on my Gentleman’s honor that nothing short of an apocalypse will keep me away from you again.“
“My Mama taught me never to swear,” she murmured, stepping into my space, “but if you’d kindly take an oath on this Wiccan book of spells I keep in my back pocket for special occasions that would be sufficient.”
I leaned in, my voice dropping. “I promise never to leave you in the dark about my whereabouts, so help me Goddess.”
She smiled, a slow, triumphant curve of her lips. She squeezed my hands, hard enough that I felt the bones in my fingers grind together. “Nice touch that Goddess reference was.”
Gloria turned, her hips swaying with that undeniable Mesoamerican rhythm, and took my order to the kitchen. She shouted over the din of the clattering pots, her voice ringing out like a temple bell in the jungle. “Mr. John is back. He is well, thank God.”
But when she walked back out of the swinging doors, she had taken her apron off. She tossed it onto the counter, grabbed my hand, and pulled me toward the exit.
“Where are we going?” I asked, stumbling slightly as her momentum carried us out onto the street.
“I’m off the clock, Mr. John,” she said, looking up at the sky.
The heat of the afternoon broke as a sudden, torrential downpour began to fall—massive, heavy drops that shattered against the hot pavement, releasing the sharp, metallic scent of ozone and wet earth. It felt exactly like the rainforest storms she had described, the sudden wrath of the sky washing over the limestone ruins. We stood there in the deluge, the rain plastering her dark hair to her neck, her breath warm against my jaw.
“I owe you a trip down Margarita Lane,” she whispered, the rain tracing the curve of her jawline. And as she pulled me into a kiss that tasted of cherry cola, wild orchids, and the deep, unyielding earth, the concrete city faded away, and we were lost entirely to the jungle.
