Javier lay outstretched on his bed waiting for his next trick. The thong dug into his back crevice with such erotic urgency that it was all he could do to keep from rolling over and relieving himself immediately. The trick was older and, according to Enid, a bit of a rube.
Javier took a long drag off of his cigarillo and slowly ground his hips in tune with the Cuban jazz number on the CD player. The singer was an elder in exile, her voice rich with experience, yet somehow sweet, dulce. He thought of coconut bread baking in his mother's kitchen, of the sips of rum his grandfather allowed him in the stands during football matches, his first kiss, with Alma Ruiz behind the bodega when they were both eleven.
The door rattled with a nervous knock. A man's voice low and anxious behind it. "Might I come in?" he asked in fractured Portugese.
It would be a long night.