Around me, suddenly, couples settle in the yard that’s now a forest of tall, gently swaying trees. Sami hugs Juleen; she receives him and they draw closer, crooning. Now I know that Jaime is looking at me. I can feel his eyes, I can feel the obviousness of his desire behind those round black frames. I glance at him sidelong and he shifts towards me with impressive – provocative – subtlety. I’m dancing along, soaring as if through a furrow in the crimps of our hair, until my hand reaches his creamy arm, his muscled shoulder, his broad chest. I don’t want to speak, don’t want to think too much. A dance flowing through a blockade, an active meditation, I shiver when he slips an arm around my waist, the first few notes of Michael Jackson’s ‘Human Nature’ waft over from the picop, but in a vibrant reggae beat that crashes me into the eagle tattoo, my hands lace behind his tall neck all by themselves, like a memory that dances too, and I wonder if it’s normal to move like this with someone in a casual, friendly sort of situation. I dance, guided by sheer instinct, and so does he, maybe moving this way for the first time in his life, and I feel him close, an act of public intimacy I don’t want to question. We’re barely moving, my legs between his, in the dim glow of the yellow streetlamps. I’m breathing close to him, my nose by his neck, smelling beyond the perfume of coconut and conch. The song changes and I pull away, look him in the eye and smile like the expert I’m not, take a step back; a dancehall beat comes on and the other ecstatic pillars split into two in the dark.

‘No seshan, huh?’ Juleen shoots me an arrogant glance and squints at me, teasing.

‘I’m practising,’ I wink, shrugging.

‘You did a good job,’ Jaime says once he’s cleared his throat. I give him a little shove in mock protest.

‘I’m going to get another beer, anyone else want one?’ I feel like taking a walk, looking into other eyes, recognising more people.

‘I’ll go, or I’ll go with you,’ Jaime volunteers.

‘Two more,’ says Juleen.

The cachaco and I cross the street. His accent still grates at me. On the other hand, his hips can really move.

‘Blockades are a party’ – he takes a nervous pause – ‘like the one last week, when Caraijta won the horse race.’

‘It’s my first blockade too, and I don’t know who Carajita is…’

‘But not your first picop, is it?’ he says, challenging me. It is.

‘Fifteen years ago, picops weren’t like this,’ I lie, or at least I think so. Jaime laughs – it’s funny that even a total cachaco can teach things to a Raizal.