(Kiss Me)
Of all the Town Cars in New York, I had to get into yours,” I say to Emilio as I slide into the back seat of his car, cross my black-stockinged legs, and look up at the rearview mirror with my sunglasses still on. Our eyes meet in the mirror.
“Where am I taking you, Ma’am?” The initial jolt of surprise I catch in his face upon seeing me when his car slinked to a stop at the curb has been replaced by a huge grin and a naughty glint in his eyes.
To the land of miracles and back, I want to say.
“Orchard and Houston, please,” says Kate as she slams the car door shut. “And get us there quick. We’re late enough as it is. We’ve got a two p.m. appointment.”
The encounter with Emilio isn’t engineered by destiny as much as it is manufactured by desire. But as far as Kate is concerned, it’s just business.
It’s fall, a mere five months later, and Miss Daisy is back in New York and in need of a driver. More specifically, Miss Daisy’s client is in need of a driver.
We’re here for a brief public relations exercise. With days packed with meetings, presentations, and store visits all over Manhattan and Brooklyn, product samples and press kits in tow, hailing cabs or jumping on a train, we sensibly agree, is just not going to cut it. We desperately need a driver. Preferably one who can get us to where we need to be in good time and at a good price.
We try, we really try to do it the economical way. But the no-frills approach isn’t exactly the wisest when you are introducing a premium organic skin care brand from Africa designed to appeal to a niche luxury market. Eairth Essentials is about Africa empowered, not Africa the eternal refugee. It’s terribly unprofessional to limp into a meeting with a beauty editor or prospective retailer while weighed down with the work-related load we’ve been carrying all day, looking like we were the worst representatives of our brand, more bedraggled cat instead of sleek cheetah—hair unruly, temples highlighted with sweat, streaked mascara, maybe even a twisted heel—all because we can’t fork out a little bit extra for a car?
“Fuck it,” Kate says. “My boots are killing me. We need a car.”
“You won’t insist on a hybrid car, will you? I know we like to walk the talk as much as we can help it, but the chances of getting a chauffeur-driven Prius might be slim.”
Especially this evening, which finds us jet-lagged still from the long flight from Johannesburg, muscles aching from lugging products. Plus we’re stranded during rush hour at a curiously cabfree corner in Brooklyn.
“You take your job too seriously sometimes, Maxine. Any car will do.”
So I call Emilio, expecting him to be available. After all, this is his line of work. Let’s not even discuss the value-added services he can provide.
“Hello?” The voice is female and terse.
I hang up. Having buoyed myself with the knowledge that Emilio would be surprised but delighted to hear from me again, the sound of a woman’s voice on the other end of the line completely throws me off.
Oh shit, he’s got a girlfriend, I think. Why else is a woman answering his cellphone? But what if I called the wrong number? What if it’s actually his sister? The voice was not particularly friendly, but it sounded young. And Emilio did say he had sisters.
I decide I’ve reached the wrong number and I call again. The same voice comes on the line.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” I say in what I hope sounds like an efficient, business-like tone. “I’m trying to reach a car service. Have I called the correct number by any chance?”
“I think you have the wrong number.” And she hangs up.
Hostile, aren’t we? Maybe Emilio’s changed his number.
Kate has just given up smoking, but is clearly wishing she had a cigarette in her mouth right now. “Do we have a car or not?”
The thing about being in PR is that you always have to have a Plan B. And it doesn’t hurt to have a good memory. A quick Google search yields the number of the car service company for which, if I remember correctly, he told me he works.
A surly, thickly accented voice answers the phone. “Hello, Brooklyn Elite Cars, can I help ju?”
I hesitate for a moment. “Yes, hello. I’m hoping you can help me. I’m looking for a driver I used the last time I was in New York? Sometime in May? He was a young guy, Dominican. I think his name was Emilio.”
“Why, ju lose sometin’?”
Yes, my innocence. Right here in Brooklyn.
“No, no, it’s not that at all.”
“What, he give ju some problem?”
“No, no. I’m not calling to complain.”
“What ju want then?”
Nice and classy, Brooklyn Elite Cars. Way to go.
“We’ve used him before,” I say. “He was good. I mean, he was very pleasant and polite, and we want to use him again.”
“He don’ work here no more.”
Emilio can’t have disappeared in five months, I say to myself. Has he joined the Marines or “sometin’” and is now dodging self-detonating jihadists in Afghanistan? What if—
“Would you have any idea where he’s working now? My mom—” okay, white lie—“my mom was hoping he could drive for us again.”
I feel we’ve reached a definite dead end. Adios, Emilio, my Brooklyn Boy. I never even knew your last name.
“Try Imperial Car Service.”
Despite my carefully cultivated cool exterior in the presence of my client, my breath catches a little. He’s alive, I think, and he didn’t join the Marines. But the question nags at me: Who is the mystery girl?
At Imperial Car Service they are most professional. Young, Dominican, Emilio. Totally fucking hot. From the description I give, minus that last bit, they know exactly whom I mean.
“He don’t work Mondays,” I am told. “You can call tomorrow. He should be available from around twelve noon.”
As Murphy’s Law goes, as soon as Kate lights up her metaphorical cigarette, a yellow cab pulls up.
“How’d you find me?” Emilio asks.
“I’m in PR,” I say, smiling. “I can find anybody.”
“Yeah? But how?”
“I made a few calls.”
“It’s good you found me. That other company, it’s my cousin’s company. But I don’t work there no more.”
“So I gather.”
I sink back into the leather seat, waiting for Kate, who has rushed into Duane Reade to get something for her acid reflux. The press preview this morning has gone well, but Kate doesn’t want to be wincing with pain at the next meeting.
“As long as it’s not too much of a shock to see me again?” I say.
He turns his head to face me. The naughty glint is still in his eyes. “I didn’t know you were in town. But I’m real happy you’re back.”
Uptown girl
She’s been living in her uptown world …
I have to confess that I did wonder whether, upon seeing him again after almost half a year, I’d come to the conclusion that our springtime dalliance was nothing more than New York casting its mischievous spell, aided and abetted by sangria and the rampant hormones of a woman in her late forties, suddenly single and astoundingly innocent in the ways of casual sexual encounters, or in the politics of dating younger men, for that matter. I thought I would brace myself, even as I quelled the proverbial butterflies in my tummy, for a what-the-hell-were-you-thinking moment, for something that would click in my lust-soaked brain and make me realize, “I can’t be doing this; I’m the mother of three young daughters!”
But the moment never comes. If anything, Emilio is as hot as I remembered, and that smile, that smile that lights up his eyes, so earnest and so naughty at the same time, just makes me want to smile back at him. It’s so high school! Next thing you know, he’ll be driving up to my front door in a tux with an orchid corsage for me.
I wish I’d been less stuck up in high school, though. All this “girls from good families don’t do this and don’t do that” bullshit … so Manila back then, shackled by a false sense propriety. The recipe was simple: take one part family honor, add two parts societal constraints, blend with three parts Catholic guilt and fear of eternal damnation and stir together until the granules of double standards have been absorbed completely and—voilà!—welcome to your messed-up life. But hey, look at the bright side—you were so eminently marriageable. On the downside, you were probably doomed to the missionary position for the duration of your married life.
Kids these days back home are smarter, thank goodness. If they’re messed up, most of the time it’s because they choose to be. Or maybe they’ve decided discretion trumps propriety.
Speaking of discretion—
“Kate’s coming,” I say, straightening up.
“Does your friend know—did you tell her about—”
The rest of his question is lost in the chaos of Kate yanking the car door open, tossing her bags on the seat and pushing the stack of files toward me before finally getting in.
“Christ almighty,” she says, breathless. “I thought I was going to die in there. All I needed was some Maalox. Okay, where are we going now? SoHo Grand, right, Maxine?”
“Yes, SoHo Grand, please. On Broadway? Between Canal and Grand.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Emilio says, and steers the car smoothly away from the curb.
That, frustratingly, is the extent of any conversation with Emilio for the next couple of days, with Kate playing the unwitting chaperone.
On a gloomy Thursday, Kate and I once again brave the winds and the rain to conquer Manhattan, or at the very least the fiercest beauty editors in town, dressed in our impractical but chic combat gear of stiletto-heeled black boots and leather coats. We have no qualms about wearing any of that now, because we’re being ferried around town in our own Town Car and arrive at our appointments looking fresh, youthful, and radiant, just as our skin care line promises.
“We’re twins again today,” Kate says as we get ready that morning, noting our all-black color scheme.
“Yep,” I answer, “the Arnold Schwarzenegger and Danny de Vito version.”
“Shorty.” She stares down at me from her lofty six-foot tall perch and pats my head.
“Amazon freak with the impossibly toned arms.”
“Harvard varsity rowing team, baby!” She flexes those enviable biceps and then winces, clutching at her tummy. “Jesus.”
“You okay?”
“Nope. Just a spasm. The usual. But I’ll survive. Press kits?”
“Check.”
“Product samples?”
“Check.”
“Presentation folder?”
“Check.”
“Memory sticks?”
“Check.”
“Call your kids?”
“Way ahead of you. Skyped them already this morning. While you were sleeping.”
“Oh yeah? You should have told me, I wanted to say hello to Gia and tell her it’s kind of impossible to find bikinis in New York when it’s freezing.”
“Don’t worry, I already told her not to drive you crazy looking for her shopping list—”
“She wanted Gap.”
“Fear not, I’ve already ordered it online.”
“Damn, you’re efficient. Okay, let’s do it. Let’s take Manhattan, one spritz at a time.”
It’s now or never …
Emilio, polite and punctual as always, is already waiting downstairs by the time we fly out of the apartment.
Kate is alternately snappy and solicitous; today is a big deal for a small start-up skin care company like hers. Apart from the chronic heartburn, she’s battling a blinding headache, hence the Jackie O. sunglasses.
“Migraines and Maalox,” she says. “Great way to start the day. Let’s grab a mug of Starbucks’ finest Colombian while we’re at it.”
I burst out laughing. “I’m hoping you mean coffee! Sorry, Kate, but we’re about to walk into Condé Nast. We’ll get your coffee later. For now, focus!”
A shot of java at this point will transform Corporate Kate into coffee-fuelled hyper Machine Gun Kate, who’ll be firing off buzzwords and an entire slew of information in five minutes instead of the usual ten-to-fifteen it takes to deliver her spiel. And today of all days we can’t have her communicating in Morse code when everyone else expects to hear English.
Actually, I’m not worried. Kate, with her lean, athletic physique, sharp mind, crisp voice, and palpable passion for her products, cuts an impressive figure when she does her presentations. It’s always the pre-performance jitters that need soothing. But after the third desk-side appointment that morning, Kate is clearly veering toward collapse; the migraine has not subsided.
Slumped against the car seat, Kate says, “Maxine, you can handle the press on your own this afternoon. I need to lie down and get some rest before the meeting with the investors. Well, to be accurate, potential investors at this point.”
“I’m sure I can manage, but it’s always better when you’re there. I mean, Eairth Essentials is your baby. No one knows the brand like you do.” I’ve gone solo on Kate’s behalf many times back in South Africa, but this is New York. It’s a totally different ballgame.
She waves a dismissive hand. “Nah, go ahead and charm them. You can do it. And may I remind you that it’s your job to know the brand as well as I do?”
“No one can know the brand as well as you do. You’re the one with the encyclopedic knowledge of what each and every single ingredient does, how much of the formulation is certified organic and fair trade—”
“You’ll be fine. Rooibos.”
“Culled from the red bush that grows in the Cedarberg mountains in the Western Cape. Known for its antioxidant properties. Present in our toner and exfoliant.”
“Marula.”
“The fruit of the marula tree, famous for its supposedly narcotic effects when consumed by elephants. But the oil of the marula is incredibly rich and nourishing and is the star ingredient of our face oil. Our marula comes from a sustainably farmed area in Namibia; every ingredient we use is ethically harvested and certified Fair Trade—”
“See? You’ll be fine.”
“—Down to the recyclable aluminum packaging.” I took a deep breath. “I sure hope so.”
“Your bonus is on the line,” she says, cackling and slapping her thigh as if she’s made the funniest joke in the history of stand-up comedy. “Just drop me off. But the weather sucks, so keep the car and driver today. He’s all yours.”
I have to bite my lip as I nod in agreement, but as soon as Kate gets out of the car, I burst into giggles. Emilio is trying to keep a straight face, but he ends up chuckling as well.
“Come on, Emilio, don’t laugh! I have to be back in Midtown in, like fifteen minutes!”
“Tranquila. I’ll get you there in time.” He turns on the ignition and drives off. “Did you tell your friend anything? I mean, about us, about the time we went to that place?”
“Are you kidding me? Of course not, she’s my client.”
In the course of working together, Kate and I have become friends, friends that sometimes go out for brunch or meet up for drinks, but the fact remains that our primary relationship is that of client and consultant. Consultant on a nice retainer at that. So I don’t think it’s prudent to say, “Hey, you know that driver I hired to take us around? I actually fucked him.” There are just some things that are too personal to reveal to a client, although knowing Kate the way I do, I have the distinct impression she would high five me and say, “Look at you, hot mama! Way to go, girlfriend!”
Without Kate around to discuss business, I suddenly don’t know what to say. Neither does Emilio, it seems, who chooses to concentrate on the road. Which is just as well, since he gets me to my next meeting way ahead of time.
“You look really nice today,” he says, finally, shifting around in the driver’s seat to face me.
“Thank you.” Must be the leather coat. Or the boots. Call me pathetic, but hearing him say that makes my heart leap a little. It crosses my mind that maybe he took one look at me and decided that I’d aged ten years in the last five months. After all, I turned forty-eight in the summer. Or that I look grossly overweight. Or that I’m just not as hot as he once imagined I was. In the May sunshine, when we met, everything seemed brighter, prettier. In the dreariness of this October rain, everything is trite and grey.
“Just text me when you’re done. I’ll be waiting.”
On impulse, I lean close to him. “Hasta luego,” I say, my lips almost touching his. Then I kiss him gently on the mouth, and scamper out of the car.
True to his word, Emilio is indeed waiting at the curb when I emerge from the meeting. But I don’t get into the car just yet, parking myself instead on a stone bench underneath one of the arches outside the building, oblivious to the pellets of rain whipping through the wind and lashing my face.
I feel a tap on my shoulder and reluctantly look up. It’s Emilio.
“Is everything okay? I brought an umbrella for you. I thought maybe you didn’t see me. I was just waiting out here—”
I attempt a wan smile. “It’s fine, thanks. I’m fine,” I mumble, shaking my head while trying to dab at my eyes discreetly.
“Hey.” He raises the umbrella above my head. “Did your meeting go badly or something? I mean—you don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, but you look real upset.”
“No, no, it’s okay. It went well. It’s just that—never mind.”
The meeting did go well. Astoundingly well, in fact. So well that the platinum-maned editor with the big round white-framed glasses, notorious for her skepticism—not completely unjustified—of beauty products masquerading as “100% natural” or “100% organic” when the actual percentage was close to negligible, spritzed herself with our toner throughout the meeting, breathing in the tangy yet sweet mist and mumbling, “Mmm, I like this, I like this.” I left with an assurance on their part that Eairth Essentials would be showcased in the Spring issue as part of the “The New Naturals” beauty feature.
It’s more, far more than a fledgling brand could ask for, considering that distribution is our weakest link. And I am thrilled and excited, really, even if it doesn’t show.
I follow Emilio meekly to the car. He drives off without saying a word.
“Where are we going?”
“Shhhh,” he urges, calmly. “Ya verás.”
Oh God, I think, the sobs suddenly drying up in my throat. Here it comes, and the real Emilio will emerge, the serial killer/rapist/gangster/human trafficker about to drive me to an unknown location to kill/rape/kidnap/sell me. This, I imagine, trying to quell the panic rising in me, is where my pious aunts back home would say with insistently wide eyes, rosary beads in hand and in dramatic Filipino, “Magluhod ka, hija, at magdasal!”—Kneel down and pray to God, my dear!—so that I might be spared from whatever grisly fate Emilio is planning for me.
But panic subsides and relief takes over when I realize he’s stopped and parked the car somewhere along the chaos of the East Village, right in front of a dry cleaners’ shop.
“Venga,” he says, opening my door and taking me by the hand, leading me toward a small restaurant on First Avenue that’s cheerful and kitsch, somewhere between beer garden and strip joint.
“What? You’re taking me to a Filipino restaurant?” I ask, noting the bright yellow bar stacked with Filipino beer, and the sign that blares out Jeepney. Our table, like the walls, is papered with garish images of cockfights and semi-nude women from the glory days of risqué Philippine cinema. “How did you even know about this place?”
“It’s a Filipino restaurant, but the cook, he’s Dominicano.” Emilio is clearly pleased with his discovery. “You were pretty upset, so I thought maybe you were homesick, and I remembered my cousin telling me about this place, ’cause his girlfriend knows the guy in the kitchen, you know?”
I can’t help it, my eyes start filling up with tears all over again. “You’re so sweet,” I say, extending my hand across the table but not quite touching his. “Thank you. But wow, a Dominican in a Filipino kitchen?”
He grins. “Let’s order something. What should I try?”
“Might be too exotic for you,” I say, thinking of the sisig, which is sizzling bits of pig’s cheek, or balut, the duck fetus cooked in its shell, definitely an acquired taste. “Maybe it’s best to start with beer. Try our beer. San Miguel. It’s one of the best beers in the world, so they say.”
“No puedo. Can’t drink while I’m working.”
“Sorry. I forgot.”
“It’s cool. I’ll have a soda. And whatever you want to order.”
Two tables away from us, a couple is digging into a tall glass of halo-halo, a crazy, colorful concoction of shaved ice with candied fruit and beans, coconut gelatin, purple yam ice cream, and flan stirred together with coconut milk. I shudder just thinking of the brain freeze I get when I have halo-halo, which throws together ingredients you never imagine would meld with each other so deliciously, but it just works.
“Are you feeling better? It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it. You just looked—you looked—pues, deshecha.”
“I didn’t mean to get so—so emotional.” Looking away from him, I add, “I got a text just as I was leaving the meeting. From home.”
“Bad news?”
“Yes and no. About my dad.”
My mother had sent the text:
Emilio stays silent.
“It’s—it’s just—It’s hard to be so far away. I know it sounds ridiculous. But I don’t see him enough, and he’s old and frail. He can’t even drive anymore. We have to hide the car keys from him sometimes, and lie that the driver took them by mistake, or that my brother-in-law borrowed the car.”
He leans forward. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. About three years ago, during the Christmas holidays, we were waiting for him at a restaurant. He didn’t bring his cellphone, so we couldn’t call to find out if he was lost, or if something had happened. It took him two and a half hours to make a trip that shouldn’t have taken longer than thirty minutes.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing. He knew where he had to go, but he couldn’t remember how to get there. He just kept going around in circles.”
“Is he sick? Does he have that thing that old people get when they can’t remember?”
“Alzheimer’s?” I nod in reply, biting my lip.
“Yeah, that one. It must suck, I’m sorry.”
“Big time.”
“Do you talk to him much?”
“Every week.”
“Does he still remember you?”
My father has been floating in a fog of forgetfulness for three years now, mostly short-term memory loss. It’s been hard on everyone in the family, not because he’s become one of those petty, belligerent, angry Alzheimer’s sufferers, but because he’s remained himself, placid, gentle, and even-tempered. It seems harsh and unnecessary to get exasperated or frustrated with him for asking the same question every five minutes, or to pity him when his eyes cloud over with befuddlement. It’s not his fault; it’s the cruel joke the disease plays on him.
Sometimes I feel the disease mocks me, too, taunting me for not being there to guide my father through the fog. Or for not being there on the rare moments when he is once again sharp, focused, and lucid. When I spoke to him last, days before I left for New York, I was telling him how nervous I was about organizing the media launch of Eairth Essentials in the biggest and most difficult market of all, questioning my own deluded audacity.
“Why?” he asked. I could sense his confusion over the phone line, his quiet struggle to remember. “When did you leave Hong Kong?”
Hong Kong? “Dad, that was ages ago. Ariane was still a baby.”
“Oh. When are you having another one? I want more than one grandchild, you know.”
Sometimes it was difficult to discern whether he’d really forgotten, or he was just pulling your leg. He always had a playful sense of humor.
“Dad,” I said, “you’ve already got three granddaughters. I had Gia and Marnie after Ariane.”
“Is Dex coming with you to New York?”
“Dad, Dex and I are divorced.”
He paused for a bit, then said, his voice light and breezy. “Yes, of course you are. I was just teasing you. How are my little girls doing? I miss them. Tell Gia she needs to stop biting my arm!”
“I will, Dad. They miss you, too. I hate having to leave them with Dex when I have to travel. If only I could take them to New York with me … ”
“New York? Why are you going to New York?”
“I told you,” I said gently, “I’m going with a client, we’re launching this organic skin care brand. I can’t even begin to tell you how terrified I am. New York is the big leagues. Maybe this is beyond my capabilities.”
“You got a job in New York already? How did you do that? Is school over yet in Paris?”
“Hey, Paris was a lifetime ago, Dad. I kind of got married and had children after that.”
“Don’t be nervous about New York, Muu-muu. You’ll be fine.”
Yes, my dad had a nickname for me, which he brandished at such random moments, transporting me instantly back to my childhood, to our huge garden bordered by a white picket fence. My mom used to dress my sister and me in matching flower-power muu-muus, so very Seventies, and we’d sashay around the garden and Dad would say, “here’s Maxine in her muu-muu,” and my little sister Karine would mimic him and say, “Maxine muu-muu,” which was abbreviated to “Muu-muu” and somehow stuck, but was discarded as soon as Karine began talking properly. It’s as if Dad saved “Muu-muu” for special moments, like when he walked me down the aisle and kissed me on the forehead before handing me over to Dex, then whispered, “Muu-muu, be happy always … ”
“You really think so, Dad?” I asked, referring to New York. “You really think I can pull it off?”
His voice was firmer now. “You’ve done it before in Hong Kong. Piece of cake for you.”
“I don’t know … ”
“Come on now, believe in yourself.”
“Okay, okay.”
“Muu-muu, you’ll knock them out, I know it. You’re my girl.”
I hung up the phone and sobbed until the sobs became howls.
The thing about my father is, though he is suffering from short-term memory loss, there is nothing of significance that he ever forgets.
“So, listen,” I say to Emilio, in between what is possibly the most bizarre smoochfest ever. Parked along a busy Manhattan street, breathing in the smell of leather, windows fogged up, the sky forlorn and the rain falling all around us, erotically speaking, it’s pretty hot. Ergonomically speaking, with him still in the driver’s seat and me behind, each of us leaning toward the other, it’s an invitation to stiff necks, slipped discs, and visits to the chiropractor.
“You feeling better now, mami?”
I nod. I am feeling infinitely better. “Gracias a ti. Listen,” I repeat. “I’m not doing anything tonight. Maybe we can get a drink or something?”
“Babe, I’d love to but … ”
“But what? You working tonight?”
“No, it’s just that … ”
You think the logistics become simpler once you got older. You also think, in a place like New York, there’s a solution for every obstacle that appears to be initially insurmountable. Finding somewhere to escape to for an amorous rendezvous should be a cakewalk, yet it is proving problematic. The apartment is out of the question; it belongs to Kate, who happens to be, for all intents and purposes, my boss throughout the duration of this trip. Although I recall her saying she was leaving a day earlier than me to fly to Washington, D.C. …
But there’s always Brooklyn, right? Wrong.
“We can’t really hang out in Brooklyn,” he says. “Because—because there’s this girl. There’s this girl I’m, like, talking to … ”
Girl? Talking? What does that mean? That he walks her home from school every afternoon so they could talk? That he has formally declared himself her suitor? It sounds quaint and juvenile, but also rather sweet. So maybe she’s the mystery girl who answered the phone the other night.
“Talking?”
“I mean, like starting to maybe go out. If someone sees us together she might find out, you know?”
Men. Really. They can be wooing one girl but kissing another. Young, old, stud, or approaching senility, it doesn’t matter how old they are. They’re all the same. Give a dog a boner and … Except my father, I’m pretty sure. Whereas most men are all ego and no balls, he is that rare man without ego.
“Well, Kate leaves Sunday night. And I leave on Monday … ”
Whatever turmoil there is in Emilio’s face about being caught in Brooklyn vanishes instantly. “Monday’s better. Maybe we can have some fun before I take you to the airport … ”
“Sure,” I say, and we continue kissing in this most uncomfortable of positions. I trail my hand slowly along his thigh, feeling the soft wool fabric of his trousers suddenly tighten and pull at the crotch. I want to unzip his pants and reach for his cock, certain it would be hard and waiting, but he nudges my hand away.
“You better go,” he says in a muffled voice, “before I fuck you right here in the car.”
Kate’s apartment is a fifth floor walk-up in the Lower East Side, next to a funky optician and a no-frills Turkish kebab place that stays open twenty-four hours. On the way out to a club one night, Kate and I dropped in for piping hot fresh kebabs; four hours later, we stopped by for sticky sweet baklavas, justifying the late-hour carbohydrate indulgence with the excuse that we needed the energy to climb up to the stairs to the apartment at three in the morning.
Emilio, on the other hand, has all the energy in the world, not to mention the muscled enthusiasm of youth. He mounts the five flights of stairs to the apartment, mounts me—twice—even carrying me from living room couch to the bedroom, and then carries my suitcases all the way down the same five flights of stairs. The only time he needs to catch his breath is when he comes. Twice.