Free Adventures of a Salsa Goddess by JoAnn Hornak Page B

wasn’t just North American men that promised an “I’ll call you” and didn’t deliver; it was universal, maybe even genetic?
    “You saw Eliseo two nights ago, you have a date with him this Saturday, and you’re going to see him in a couple hours,” I reminded her.
    “Maybe he’s met someone else?” she said, looking really worried, and I could certainly sympathize. I did the same thing when it came to men I liked. The worst-case scenario leapt instantly to mind. If he didn’t call, he’d either become engaged or eloped in the twenty-four hours since I’d last seen him.
    “That’s impossible,” I said confidently, knowing of course that when it came to relationships, nothing was impossible. But that’s what I would want Lessie to tell me if I were in her situation.
    “But they’re not like us! They don’t have emotions!” Lessie put her palms over her face, leaned her head back, and groaned. “Why do we even want men? They just drive us insane!”
    * * *
    Two hours later, Lessie and Eliseo were standing smashed up against the balcony of Cubana’s patio, sneaking the occasional kiss mixed with long minutes spent gazing into each other’s eyes like two war-torn lovers finally reunited after continents and decades spent apart. A troupe of naked circus performers could have waltzed by and I doubt they’d have noticed.
    I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy. This could be Zack and me, except that clearly Zack was a cad with no qualms about using his Adonis -like magnetism to lure women into lusting after him, and then sadistically cutting them loose, leaving them frothing at the mouth, mere helpless puddles of goo.
    “It’s too bad they don’t like each other.”
    I turned and saw Javier behind me. I thought I might have imagined my visceral response to Javier from the other night, but once again, just the sight of him sent my heart into overdrive. He nodded in the direction of Lessie and Eliseo.
    “Yeah, they would’ve made such a nice couple,” I said smiling.
    Javier kissed me on the cheek and then paused, lowering his face to my neck for a second before straightening up. During that second, which seemed to last an hour, I willed him to kiss my neck; I could feel his lips caressing my ...
    “What perfume are you wearing? Wait, let me guess.” He grabbed my right hand, and led me out to the dance floor. “Obsession, right?”
    “Are you an expert on women’s fragrances as well as an expert salsa instructor?” I asked him, feeling my legs going weak.
    “In this line of work, I’m forced to smell the necks of a lot of beautiful women,” he said, adopting a serious look.
    “Sounds terrible,” I said, assuming an expression of deep concern. “How do you manage?”
    “I’m not sure,” he told me. “Some days I think about getting a more pleasant job—exterminating cockroaches, cleaning urinals at the Greyhound bus station, making deliveries to toxic waste dumps. But I guess a sense of duty keeps me here. It’s a rough job, but somebody’s got to do it.”
    I’d only been in Milwaukee a short time and had already found myself intensely attracted to two men (three if you counted Zack). But being with Javier felt so different than my date with Robert. Everything was lighter, easier, and more fun. And then there was Javier’s dimple. I can’t explain my utter infatuation with dimples. It’s like asking someone why he or she loves chocolate—they just do. For me it was dimples. And chocolate. But alas, it was my fate thus far in life that I’d never even kissed a be-dimpled man.
    We started dancing. Actually, Javier started dancing while I flailed about like a puppy sprinting across a newly waxed floor, coordination not being one of my strong points. This could explain why I was chosen last or next to last for every team sport in school. It was either me or Naomi Hertsgaard, a girl with Coke-bottle eyeglasses who was so uncoordinated and spindly she looked like an octopus