I touch the foam to my tongue.It slides into a touch of coconut, and then…nothing.
I take ten seconds to chew.I take five to swallow.I set the fork down and line it up with the plate edge.
“How long did you cure them?”I ask, eyes on my fork.
“Eight minutes,” Chef says.“The acid was on fire today.”
He moves into my field of vision.
I resist turning my head.Every time I don’t look at him is a small victory.He circles the table.I let my shoulders relax a millimeter.
“The lulo,” I say.“You found some here?”
“Frozen purée,” he says with disdain.“Acceptable for people who don’t know any better.Luckily for you, I do.”
I spear another shrimp.I lick a fleck of onion off my lip.Stick my chest out.“So,” I say as conversationally as I can.“Reyes.”
He doesn’t seem to notice my overt action.He was never that interested in my boobs.Only my mouth on his disgusting dick.Then again, he requested the blue dress.If I can seduce him—God, the thought makes me gag—maybe he’ll be more vulnerable.
Still, he seems interested only in the dinner as he pours a pale wine.Probably a Sauvignon Blanc.It was always one of his favorites.Frankly, I think it’s overrated.
“What about him?”
“He met me at the door.”I dip the shrimp in the foam.Balance it on the fork.Wait a beat.“Is that a new alliance or an old one?”
A tiny shrug.“A shared interest.”
“In me?”I eat the shrimp, slowly, so I don’t choke on the food or the words.
“In resolution,” he says.“He is not a subtle man, but he understands pressure.”
“You put a bomb on a bus,” I say, licking my lips.
Still, he doesn’t notice my overtures.
Strange.
“Insurance.”He takes a sip of his wine, eyes on his own plate, as if I’ve said something tactless and we’re moving past it out of politeness.“Eat, Daniela.”
I eat.I eat like a person who might die tomorrow and who wants to taste something right now that isn’t fear.The lulo sparkles on my tongue.The coconut tastes like a beach.The onion stings just enough to remind me I have a tongue.I take a plantain chip and snap it in half so the sound echoes.
Halfway through the ceviche, I stop to breathe, head tilted like I’m considering something profound about texture.What I’m considering is blood.My pulse has slowed enough that my fingers don’t shake.Good.
“Do you remember the first thing I made you taste?”he asks.
I catch a flash of his cologne—amber, pepper, the dry thing he wore when I was sixteen and so eager to be praised I would have eaten cayenne by the spoonful if he told me it would make me a better cook.
I smile without showing teeth.“The cocoa nibs.You said to feel the bitterness all the way to the back of my throat.”
His laugh is genuine.It hits me in the stomach.“You were very obedient that day.”
“I was terrified,” I say.
He doesn’t react.At least not overtly.I see subtle interest.
Does he want me?What is this all about?
I didn’t expect to come here and be confused.
