“¿Qué pasa chica?” He shrugged his shoulders and raised his palms in the air. His shirt was damp. It was long enough to hide himself beneath it. Sweat stains had pooled beneath his arms. He mumbled and swatted at a mosquito and cursed when he missed it. She ignored him, smoothing down her skirt and adjusting the bows on her shoulders.

“Vale,” he said. He rapped on the bench with his knuckles. Knock. Knock. She wanted to say, “Who’s there?” like the joke, but instead Luis’ knocking was answered by a flurry of laughter skidding into the room. Ha-Ha, Ha-Ha, it sounded just like her mother hammering from the bar. Ha-Ha, Ha-Ha, the pounding of the final drinks. This from a woman who all her life pre-divorce didn’t touch a drop of alcohol except for the single sip after a champagne toast.

Luis was zipping up his fly while everyone was saying their good-byes. She heard her mother say, “Adios,” the only Spanish she ever used.

Michelle took Luis’ hand and she sat back down beside him. He pulled her in tight and said with delight, “Ah, que bella, americana.” He cupped her face in his hands and looked at her the way he had at that first encounter on the beach. He lifted her back on his lap and finally kissed her on the lips. At last, first base, this was the position she played on the school softball team. She wanted to stay there, just kissing and kissing and kissing forever. But in the next minute, he was already moving on to second and racing the clock to slide into home.

The jukebox played an aching love song. The strum of guitar matched the deliberate footsteps she’d heard all her life. Her mother was rounding the corner. Her words swelled as she neared. Michelle tried to linger, rocking back and forth on his lap. It felt like the swaying motions of a boat. He gave sailing lessons. Her mother had told her so. And so she stayed on his lap, anticipating the tide. Michelle held her breath. If she could time it right, if she could wait another beat, maybe, just maybe, she’d get swept to shore.

IN THE SEASON OF MILK FRUIT

IN THE SEASON OF MILK FRUIT

Ma hides a stack of old photos at the bottom of her velvet-lined jewelry box. They are hidden beneath mismatched earrings, perfume samples that will never know the inside of a wrist, old keys that open forgotten doors. The photos are from the old country, framed by those old fashioned scalloped edges and washed in a sepia haze. Still, in each one, my Ba looks like a brand new Cadillac, shiny and modern, gleaming into the viewfinder.