Breathe. He was just being protective. “I appreciate your concern but I’m not going alone. I’m going with Zoila.”
“A work trip? With Zoila?”
“Yes, with Zoila.”
“Whatever, Alma. I just want you to be safe. Promise me you’ll be careful.”
She appreciated his concern even though it was totally misplaced. They were no longer together. “I’ll do my best. Back to the tequilas.” She pointed at the glasses.
Jaime relaxed back into his chair. “You’re so fucking sexy. Do you know that?”
“Pardon, Señor. This is a dignified tasting,” she teased.
He rubbed his hands through his hair. “I apologize. Continue, please.” He undid his bow tie, so it hung around his neck, and undid the top few buttons on his shirt. A wisp of chest hair peeked out and she gulped.
He grinned and undid one more button.
Alma pulled herself together.
She raised the first bottle; the clear liquor caught the reflection of the moonlight. “To start, we have the blanco.” She poured a small amount into his glass. “If you notice, the shape of this glass is tall and slender, which is supposed to funnel the sensation to your mouth.”
He took a small sip. “This is exquisite.”
“Enjoy the floral notes; it’s sweet and soft.” She took a glass from behind the bar and poured her own sip. She was off work now. What was the harm in partaking?
Jaime’s eyes closed for a moment. They opened and met hers. “I was taking a beat to enjoy it. It’s light.”
Alma gleamed. She had rarely met anyone, man or woman,who seemed to appreciate tequila as much as she did. She was constantly rattling on and on about her love of this spirit, and most people she encountered just wanted to get drunk or drown out the liquor, either blended with fruit or masked by some other alcohol.
But as far as she could tell, Jaime seemed to truly enjoy the object of her affection.
And now they were both enjoying her favorite blanco together. “This is best in a margarita or a paloma. It can be aged, but often goes from the still to a tank to the bottle. That is why it’s white or silver in color.”
Jaime downed the rest of his glass, and she drank hers too. When in Rome. Or Mexico. Or Tiburon.
“For our next tequila, we have the reposado, which means rested. It is aged in barrels, which gives it the golden hue. This one is smoother on the palate. You can use it in any recipe that calls for blanco, but I like it simply with a slice of lime and a sprig of basil. And notice this glass—it’s shorter so it directs the aromas of the drink to your nose so you can smell the elements.”
Jaime lifted the drink, swirled it around the glass, and inhaled. “Smells heavenly.” He took a small sip. “I’ve never tasted anything like that. This one is woodsy.”
“Yes! That’s the oak notes!” Her mouth widened into a smile.
He took another sip. “It’s so exciting to taste them the way they are meant to be savored.”
“It totally is. And now, we have the joven, which means…” she prompted Jaime. His Spanish sucked but he should get that one at least.
“Young, Alma. I’m not an idiot.”
“Not saying you are. Not learning Spanish isn’t your fault—it’s part of generational trauma.”
Jaime rolled his eyes. “You sound like Enrique.”
“Oh, I didn’t know he was so in touch with our cultural issues.”
“Yeah, he’s really into that stuff. He sees a therapist every week. It’s not really my thing—I spent enough time in therapy as a kid.”
Alma winced. She had hoped over the years that Jaime would seek therapy for his complex family issues, but she realized it was rarer for a man to get mental help than for a woman. It wasn’t her place to nag, but she couldn’t help but try to encourage him.
“You should go to therapy again. Seriously. It’s super helpful for me.” She put a hand on his.
