The Doublemint Man is shiny with sweat and slumming it up in Spanish Harlem. He is not alone. Maria lies next to him. Maria. He just met a girl named Maria. And suddenly it’s summer. The curtains flutter. He strokes the fine forest of dark hairs on her arms and above her knee. He can’t get enough of her. Her smell, her feel, her her. He’s a goner. He takes a swig off a can of Budweiser and puts it to Maria’s lips. She sips. Even the way she sips turns him on and leaves him on. Maria takes an ice cube from the cooler by the bed and puts it on his forehead, where it melts as quickly as if on a stove.
“I love you, Maria,” he says. “Your flesh feels like home to me. Su casa es mi casa.”
“That doesn’t sound so good as you think, Gringo.” But she smiles. They kiss. Their tongues move over each other so fast and deep, as if having given up on words to express the intensity of their feeling. Thank God for a language barrier. There is too much to tell and nothing to say. Their mouths will show from now on and not tell. Cerveza never tasted better. Woman never tasted better. Life never tasted better. He whispers in her ear as he eases easily inside her. They begin to sway, side by side, and make love for the third or fourth time today.
“Nothing exists outside this room. No wrld [sic] no people no sun no moon no time.”
“Tell me that story again, Grigo [sic].”
“Just you and me. The Russians dropped the bomb. Everyone is dead and everything is gone. Only this room survived. It’s only us left.”
“Just you and me?”
“Just me and you, baby.”