“Only three leaves?” he asked petulantly.
“You are not that lucky,” she replied, capping the pen.
Later, when the bar closed, she took us all back to her place. She fried plantains, and gave us more tequila, and put a fire in the little wood stove. The tequila was chilled over ice, strained, and served with a lump of sugar and the juice of a half lime, each in a little tumbler, without ice. We watched Spanish soap operas on a tiny TV in her bedroom.
Her friend got up and went to the kitchen. He stayed there; I could hear him pacing, his tennis shoes squeaking on the linoleum floors.
On that collapsible couch, she leaned on me, pressing her breasts into my arm. Her breath was sweet, and it cradled my face in its warmth.
The pacing stopped. He called out her name a couple of times, tersely.
“I’m going to get rid of him,” she spat angrily, rising.
The front door slammed; she came back, and gave my friends the spare bedroom. Then she went back out to the kitchen; cleaned the mess, turned off the lights, blew out the candles and cracked open the windows.
Just a little, to let in the cool, morning air.