Barbacoa Float Life

"I'm full! Really!" I stopped on the boardwalk, my arms heavy with leftovers. A thermos with left over chicken noodle, not the good kind, and somewhere underneath the activewear jacket hung over from my mother's era, the straps of a Walmart salad bag, contents now slightly wilted, twisted around the two smallest fingers of my left hand, a local roaster's day-old espresso with a white layer bloom like chocolate gets when it sees moisture. And notebooks.

Five or six notebooks with bits and bytes of data, some strains of old songs, right brain-freewriting exercises, a few snippets of ancient lettering. The paisley bound, from the coffeshop in Spui - The Hague, held magical realism memories, old recipes, dialogue for my novella and some literary notes for my magnum opus, all saved for a time, times, and half a time, when I expect to have residual energy at the end of a work week.

"Sit here my love," he worked deftly at the bbq. Squeezing a bruised limon into my Mexican beer and sprinkling just enough salt into my palm to spill into the bottle, altering that first bitter pull.

"My poor, weary foot," He first petted them, trailing kisses down each bridge to my toes, he laid each one onto the milk crate ottoman under the big oak settee, "Salud... To more!" He raised his glass in a practiced toast.

The purple setting sun, was just slits through the shading branches overhead, cooling without chilling.

Romero turned back to the grill, setting out classic bowls of chopped cilantro, its earthy aroma clarifying, and wedges of limon to draw out the nuances of flavor on each district of the tongue.

Enrique Iglesias crooning in English and in Spanish, while Rome's demon totem tattoos seemed to watch his thick brown fingers make quick work of the beef, sliced so thin you could almost see light through it.

The carne asada was tender, flash cooked on what was left of last night's mesquite coals.

Asparagus warmed enough to leave the green and purple spears, just a little crisp and dripping with fresh hand worked butter.

Even the bowl of beans, salted to perfection with one whole jalapeño, became an authentic growler.

"You moved in and took possesion kinda quick didn't ya?" Ponce was a pocho nickname for my buster ex-husband, posting up as an internet gangster.

"Of course. I know a good thing when I see it. Don't need another man's infomercial on her." Rome sent a delayed reply after multiple messages annoyed.

"I'll fight you anytime, anywhere, you looking all cool and so good."

Romero's eyebrows pulled down suspiciously at that last line.

"Possibly," He nodded, considering the best deterrent. Biceps rolling, he patiently toasted rice. "You should tell him, out of respect for his kids, I haven't given him what he deserves, but he mighta bit off more'n he can chew, 'cuz I didnt learn to fight on girls."

The expected followed, Ponce texted me what bullies say instead, "Well, I don't need to fight him, per se, only... I'm not afraid to. I wrestled in high school and got an award for spearing the best shoot out."

The rice base, golden brown now, was ready for Spanish Rice.

The meal coming together, Rome roasted tomatoes, avocados, serranos, garlic and onions over the flame. He twisted off two heads cilantro, and selected gourmet molcajetes for portions of comino, sea salt, and limon.

The agua fresca sat in a crate of ice, bits of mint and fruit refreshers floating, the horchata, a rice and cinnamon drink satisfied, where, the jaimica, a hibiscus flower tea, had a regenerative energy, and rich bramble berry flavor. The drinks alone represented hours of processes, and overnight curing.

Mangoes and pineapple skewered for appetizers, and radishes to put out the five-alarm, I-can't-feel-my-face fire of Rome's secret-recipe salsa.

After a good couple hours, the weekend realization set in.

Romero read my relaxed body language, drew off my work suit, and pulled his tee over my head, all the scents of the day, the spice of his deodorant, tres flores hair care of 'Romey' and his herb'n° chapl'n° lil homies, the faint scent of his favored Guess cologne, Turkish Tobacco ejuice, sunwarmed skin pheremones.

He set me up with our herb'n° fingertip bowl and towel, then without anything but a fat León lip kiss, tingling through a sparkling heart and making its way to the walls he would walk later, he handed me a simple inclusive cookout project.

A bowl of tortilla masa still in duck-egg sized forms. I patted, flipped one back and forth, until the patties stretched well over the heel of my palm, perfect for tearing into food by divine design.

"Hey mom, dad's ex girlfriend is asking me if she should give him a second chance, she loves him, but can't deal with his lyin' cheatin' bum," Kay nudged me, "We sure got blessed with him." She nodded toward the bbq pit chef. "Mom," Kay was persistent in her petulance, "What do I tell her?"

"If I answer and you speak for me, you quote me exact, you hear!?!"

She poised phone in hand texting as I spoke.

"We still love him too, if it wasn't for this flaw, I'd still be married to him."

"Damn, came the reply, "I wish I could have talked to your mom before."

Chuckling, in her usual irony, A.Z. called out, "Hey Ma, you know every girl we know wants this..." She nodded, at Rome walking up to our group, "Wait for it," He popped a grape in my mouth, and appreciatively curve his hand from my hip to... pick me up curves and all to wind about his waist and sink back, all. the. way. down shuddering into my chair.

Hecka good. Huh!

Good food, good music, good drinks, and company. I only need one more thing...

Like all the other times Rome seemed to read my mind, he whispered, "And I'm gonna give it to you too." He tucked just one finger on the inside of my thigh, suggestively, rubbing firmly the pad of his thumb on my hip.

In good pocho style our one day off began on the appearance of the evening star of the sabbath, a true sabbatical from the week's work and purposefully stretched into two, maybe three days with a little siesta, only one minor trista, some fuerza at the barbacoa, with lots of familia and fiesta.