“This top is fabulous!” Sara enthused as she circled me, looking at the item of clothing from every conceivable angle.
“It fits you perfectly. The color complements your skin tone. And the way it dips down and sort of pools at the small of your back . . . very sexy. Is this 100% silk?” She rubbed the thick strap that sat on the slope of my right shoulder before I could answer her. “Oh, yeah, this is good stuff.” A fashion designer by trade, Sara was quite passionate about things like the quality of fabric.
“I’m glad you approve,” I said with an amused smile. The line that we were standing in, waiting to gain entry into SoBe’s newest, hippest pan-Asian restaurant, began to move. “You can borrow the top if you want.”
Sara guffawed and made a dismissive hand gesture. “Please! You know I don’t have the boobs to fill it out.”
Maybe she didn’t have the boobs, but Sara had everything else. She was tall (at 5’10, she stood three inches above me) and slender with long, coltish legs, straight, silky, blonde hair (currently cut in a stylish bob), a flawless complexion, and eyes the color of the Caribbean Sea. She had always been beautiful, but didn’t seem to care, which was one of the qualities that had endeared her to me when we’d met in our freshman year at the University of Miami.
A large, dark-suited man ushered us through the front door of Wasabi where we encountered another huge crowd of people, most of whom were standing around chatting even though it was almost impossible to hear yourself think, much less talk, over the din. Sara and I pushed our way up to the hostess stand and informed one of the blank-eyed, black-clad girls there that we had a reservation. She didn’t look impressed.
“We’ll call you when your table is ready,” she told us in a so-bored monotone.
We moved off to the side and staked claim to a small unoccupied bit of space up against a wall. I leaned into Sara and almost-shouted, “How are preparations coming along for the show?”
The “show” was the Miami Summer Fashion Extravaganza, which was an annual event held at the Fontainebleau Hotel. Sara would be debuting her new line of bathing suits there and since hundreds of buyers from all over the world, as well as important members of the fashion press would be in attendance, it was a huge opportunity for her.
“I’m totally stressed out. I’ve got less than three months until the show, and everything’s falling apart. The ruby chips I wanted for my jeweled bikini are too expensive, so I’m going to have to go with something cheaper like amethysts or aquamarines, which means changing the color of the suit. It’s just a nightmare! I may end up throwing myself into the Atlantic before this is all over,” she proclaimed. Like all creative geniuses, Sara had a flair for the dramatic.
“You’ll deal with it,” I assured her. “When you were with Versace, you always had to make changes to your designs at the last minute.”
“True, but it’s my name on the label now. So, every setback just seems more catastrophic. By the way, I’ve changed the name of my line.”
“What was wrong with Sara Reade Swimwear?” I wondered.
“It was boring and unmemorable. I need a name that’s catchy, something that no one will forget. How does Serafina Swimwear grab you?”
“Serafina?” I let the name roll off my tongue as I considered it. “I like it! It’s colorful, exotic, alluring.”
“Just like my suits! See, it’s perfect. Oh, there are the guys.” She waved at Matt and his friend, who’d just walked into the restaurant.
“Hey, baby,” Matt greeted his girlfriend with a quick smooch. “Pilar, this is my buddy, Ben.”
Matt and Ben? I was tempted to make a Good Will Hunting joke, but it was just too easy.
“Hi.” I extended my hand for Ben to shake, but he was so busy giving my body the once-over that he didn’t notice. Matt had to give him an elbow in the side.
Ben grunted. “Huh? Oh, yeah, hi. Nice to meet you.” His hand was cold and clammy. ICK
“Looks like our table is ready.” Sara saw the hostess signaling us.
We trooped into the restaurant’s dining room and were seated at a center table. Sara and I took chairs next to each other, while our dates faced us. We’d barely had time to place our napkins in our laps when our waiter appeared to ask if we wanted something to drink?
“I’ll have a Chocolate Banana Martini.” Sara was a self-admitted chocoholic who had to have it in some form or another at every meal (yes, even breakfast.) I’d actually seen the woman melt Hershey’s Kisses in with her scrambled eggs.
I ordered one of the most popular cocktails in South Beach, “A Watermelon Mojito.”
The guys opted for beer, and our server was off to get our beverages.
“So, Pilar, tell me about yourself.” Suddenly, there were three pairs of eyes on me. I hated the getting-to-know-you part of first dates. I felt like I had to sell myself as an interesting person in 25 words or less.
“Well, as you probably know already, I’m a psychologist.”
“Oh, yeah,” Ben tried not to look bored and failed as he pulled a slightly crumpled pack of non-filtered Camels from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and set them down on the table in front of him, “that must be a drag, listening to people bitch and moan about their problems day in and day out.”
He was a smoker and he disdained my profession? Two strikes and we hadn’t even opened our menus.
“Actually, no, I enjoy helping people.”
“Yeah, that’s what Matt and I do, help people. Right, buddy?” He gave his friend a hearty slap on the back.
Grimacing, Matt replied, “In a manner of speaking, but our PR firm helps corporations, not individuals.”
“We work for the biggest PR firm in Miami, JKR Communications. You’ve heard of it, right?”
I started to say “no,” but Ben plowed ahead before I could get the word out.
“Our clients are HUGE! The Miami Heat, Univision, Sony . . . Matt and I were just put in charge of this new cruise line account that we’re going to make a mint on. We’ll probably get bonuses in the $75K range this year and that’s on top of our salaries, which means we’ll take home close to a quarter mil’ in 2012.”
Men who bragged about the size of their bank accounts were usually overcompensating for a lack of size elsewhere. Strike three. I wanted to go home.
Ben removed a cigarette from the pack he’d been unconsciously caressing ever since he’d placed it on the table and shoved the cancer stick between his lips. A waitress, who was bustling by with a tray full of food, screeched to a halt and said, “I’m sorry, sir, but there’s no smoking in this restaurant.”
“Do you see any smoke, sweetheart?” he queried irritably. “As long as this cigarette’s not lit, I’m not breaking any of the Health Department’s Fascist, anti-smoking laws, so stop hassling me and go back to filling up ketchup bottles.”
The waitress retreated, looking chastened and embarrassed.
Men who abused wait staff were petty and tyrannical in nature. Strike fo—, oh wait, I was out of strikes. I’d have to start issuing demerits.
“Nicotine withdrawal is making somebody cranky,” Sara observed. “Matt, why don’t you give Ben some of your Nicorette?”
“You’d think I’d pulled out an Uzi, instead of a cigarette,” Ben groused. “Smokers get no respect; we’re treated like second-class citizens everywhere we go. If we want to light up, we’re forced to leave whatever restaurant, club, or store we’re patronizing and stand outside like social pariahs.”
“Smoking’s too much trouble now; I’m glad I quit,” Matt remarked as he searched his pockets for his nicotine gum.
“I’m glad I never started.”
My date gaped at me. “You’ve never smoked?”
I shrugged. “It’s just something that’s never appealed to me.”
“Oh, man, I’ve been smoking a pack a day since I was 15. You have no idea what you’re missing.”
Heart disease? Lung cancer? Emphysema? I was pretty sure I could do without all of those things and I was just about to tell Ben that and give him the name of a hypnotherapist, who specialized in the treatment of people with addictions, when our drinks arrived.
I took a big swig of my Mojito, then another one.
“Uh, Pilar . . .” I thought Sara was going to tell me to slow down or suffer the consequences. Instead, she muttered, “Take a look at the bar. 3:00.”
I turned ever-so-subtly to my right and saw an all-too-familiar face. Just when I thought the night couldn’t get any worse . . .
“Would you excuse me for a minute?” I politely asked my date as I rose from my seat. “I have to take care of something.”
Sara stared up at me. “Do you want me to come with you?”
“No, I can handle this.” I took a few steps away from the table, then stopped and went back for my Mojito. I had a feeling I was going to need it.
“Hello, Victor,” I acknowledged the dark-haired man in the cream-colored designer suit who was conspicuously perched on the corner stool at the bar.
He swiveled around to face me. “Buenas noches, mi amada.” Victor was not bilingual, but he liked to pepper his conversation with Spanish words and phrases as though he was. It enhanced his Latin lover image, or at least he thought it did. “This is a surprise.”
“I doubt that. You followed me here, and now you’re spying on me and my date. Remember that discussion we had about boundaries? You’re not respecting mine.”
“But I am!” he insisted with a hurt expression. “I didn’t come to your table. I was just admiring your beauty from afar.”
“I don’t want you admiring me period. We broke up, remember?” I kept using that word as if he suffered from amnesia. Selective memory was more like it. Most of what I said to Victor seemed to go in one ear and out the other.
“I don’t accept that.” Before I could stop him, he dropped down on one knee and took my free hand in his, clutching it to his heart. “I love you, Pilar. No other man will ever love you like I do. I eat, breathe, and sleep you. You are in my thoughts every minute of every day!” It was quite an impassioned speech, but then Victor had always been one for the big romantic gesture.
“You are developing an unhealthy fixation on me, Victor. Please, get up.” I tugged on his arm, and with a plaintive sigh, he rose to his feet.
“You have no romance in your soul, mi querida,” he chastised. “Most women would be thrilled to have a man fall at their feet and pledge his eternal devotion.”
“So, why don’t you go find one of them and leave me in peace?” I suggested.
“Pilar, Pilar . . .” He gazed at me with rueful brown eyes. “It doesn’t work like that. You are the only one for me. Another woman will never do.”
“As I recall, plenty of other women did just fine when we were dating. Let’s see, there was that jailbait cashier at Pollo Tropical, your brother’s girlfriend, the one who liked to sunbathe by your parents’ pool topless - I think her name was Stacey, the lingerie model who was built like Pamela Anderson . . . shall I go on?”
He threw up his hands in exasperation. “So, this is why you won’t take me back? Because I committed a few,” he saw my raised eyebrow and corrected himself, “alright, several, indiscretions during our relationship. If I had known that my extracurricular activities were going to upset you so much, I never would have . . .”
“Please,” I stopped him, “let’s not rewrite history. It would be an exercise in futility. We can’t change the past and we both need to move forward.”
“Together?”
“No!” I was starting to get really frustrated with him. I gulped down the rest of my Mojito in an effort to calm my nerves, then set the empty glass on the bar.
“I need to get back to my date before he thinks that I’ve deserted him, and you need to leave.”
“You’re not planning to sleep with him,” Victor glanced over at Ben and curled his lip derisively, “tonight, are you?”
“Did I sleep with you on the first date?”
“I think it was the twenty-first.”
“Then, rest assured, that my virtue is safe. Pay your bill and go back to your own bar,” I instructed.
Victor owned a tapas restaurant and bar a few blocks over on Collins Avenue, and that’s where our ill-fated first meeting had taken place. I’d gone to Liscano’s (named after Victor’s family since his parents had given him the seed money for the business) with a group of girlfriends to celebrate the opening of my new office, and he’d sent us a round of drinks on the house. Later, he’d come over to our table and introduced himself. At the time, I’d been impressed. Victor was handsome (he had a young Andy Garcia thing going on), successful, and charming. And most importantly, he knew just how to flatter a woman and make her feel special.
When he’d asked me to join him for a trip around the bay on his sailboat the following day, I’d consented without hesitation. And we’d been happy for a while. Picnics on the beach, regattas at the Miami Yacht Club, salsa dancing, hot air balloon rides, Dolphins games, impromptu getaways to the Keys, life with Victor Liscano had been a non-stop thrill ride, but eventually, I’d gotten nauseous and wanted to get off. My discovery of his cheating had given me the excuse I needed to end our relationship.
The truth was that Victor and I had never been simpático. He was Mr. Party-All-The-Time, while I was more serious and work-oriented. Not that I didn’t like to have fun, but the main focus in my life was my career. I wanted to make a name for myself as a psychologist in South Florida and building a thriving practice required commitment and hard work. Victor’s idea of working hard was dropping in at Liscano’s for an hour or two every night so that he could flirt with the female customers. He pretty much left the actual running of his restaurant to the manager.
“Fine. I’ll go.” Victor pulled out his wallet and slapped a $20 bill down on the bar. “But I’m not discouraged. Our time will come again, Pilar. I am certain of that. Until then, I can be patient.”
I was beginning to think that he should be a patient. Maybe I should refer him to Dr. Fields?
He leaned over and gave me a kiss on the cheek. He was wearing so much cologne that the scent tickled my nose, and I almost sneezed.
“Adiós, mi corazón. I’ll call you later.”
“Don’t—,” I made a half-hearted attempt to protest, but didn’t even bother to finish my sentence. Victor was going to do what he wanted to no matter what I said. It was a hopeless cause.
I turned around and smacked my hand on the bar. “Bartender,” I called.
“Another Watermelon Mojito.” I slid my empty glass towards the young stud who responded to my summons. “No, wait. Give me a Sunburn. Those are strong, right?”
“They’re made with two kinds of rum.”
“Perfect.” I hoped the alcohol would give me enough of a pleasant buzz to get through the rest of my date with the obnoxious Ben, then block out my memory of the night completely.