He offered her a drink when they left the restaurant. She looked at him … cocked her head … seemed unsure. He smiled, as I-nelik had taught him, and led her home without discussion.

They sipped mojitos in the courtyard, a moldering square of tiles around an almond tree, and shared a macanudo and talked and listened and argued, entangling their minds in a wrestling match which she won with ease, for she was wiser and more worldly. She’d lived in five countries, including Morocco and India, and spoke Arabic, Farsi, French, and Hindi.

They went inside when the night brought rain. Setting cans to catch the leaks in the parlor, they talked some more, leaning against each other on the swaybacked sofa with their feet propped up on a milk crate.

At some point—he could never remember when, because it had been so unexpected—she pointed to the record changer, a hefty old thing from Albania, and asked if he had any jazz. The question felt like a test, a requirement for entry to her finishing school. He knew this by the way she smiled when he asked her, like a bartender at a good hotel, “What can I get for you?” She smiled from the inside, happy for the both of them.

They listened to Johnny Hartman, giggled each time the record changer fell asleep. Then he put on The Wailers—Kaya—and the bass began to lick them like a curious tongue … and nothing was funny anymore.

“Would you like to dance?” he asked. She said yes, and he held her by the waist, which was soft even then, and sank his hips into the sweet spot. She shook when he started to stir it up, then answered his circumlocutions with inquiries of her own. They continued to dub after the last track had faded like the paint on the wall she was cotched against. Her legs were apart. Her dress hiked up. Her body clammy with their mingled sweat. What to do? They weren’t quite sure. Then there was a power cut, and it was inevitable.

“What are you thinking?” she asked.

“That I want you to stay the night.”

She slipped a hand down his thigh. “Why?”

“I want to see you naked.”

She coaxed his hand into the pulpy split. “See me through your fingers,” she said. “Let’s pretend to be blind.”

“I want to see you,” he replied, “to keep a piece of you with me forever. We might have the night and lose the day.”

“But I only need today,” she whispered.

“But I need tomorrow … I’m just that kinda guy. Share a little tomorrow with me.”

She kissed him.

“Before I say yes,” she said, “I should tell you something. I am woman … I am water. You are man … you are stone. Water will wear down stone.”

They stayed in touch through letters. Phone calls sometimes. But those were harder, requiring a connection through a third country. Then she came to visit three months after leaving and he began to smell molasses. One night, as they biked along the Malecón, she asked if he was dating. She hopped off the handlebars and they sat with their backs to the sea. He told the truth.