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She returned with a plate of beans she set next to the rice. “Eat while it’s hot. He’ll get here when he gets here.”
“That’s okay, Mom,” said Bonita. “What’s the expression: a short wait only heightens the pleasure.”
Bonita looked at me when she said that, and every muscle in me knotted up and locked. I thought I’d forget how to breathe. It was only a glance, but it couldn’t have been accidental. Or was it?
I was always overanalyzing things, and there I was, trying to differentiate intent from inadvertence while a million competing thoughts ran through my head. How long had I been waiting for Bonita? And how intense would the pleasure be?
“I don’t think that’s the expression,” said Guillermo. “Maybe, a short pleasure can heighten a long wait.” He snagged a piece of chorizo off the plate and popped it into his mouth.
I laughed. It wasn’t that funny, but I think I laughed more out of relief. My muscles had relaxed a bit, and I was able to breathe.
“It better not be a long wait,” said Mrs. Morales. She set a platter of plantain next to the other dishes and took a seat with a well-deserved sigh.
Guillermo took a forkful of the cooked banana from the platter and scooped it into his mouth.
“Guillermo,” said Mrs. Morales, “put it on your plate.” She motioned to me. “We’ve got company.”
Guillermo laughed. “That’s not company; that’s Noah.”
Guillermo’s laugh was contagious, and we all chuckled.
Mrs. Morales conceded with a light shrug. “Still,” she said, “we’re not savages.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Guillermo, and he wiped a piece of banana that had fallen on his chin, flicked it into his mouth and licked his finger.
Mrs. Morales rolled her eyes.
Bonita looked at me again. Was she wondering if I was savage? Does she hope that I am? The thought came and went in a flash; still, it left me with my stiff dick pressing against my pants. I shifted in my chair and reached nervously for my fork, which I immediately set down again. Her eyes were still on me. I wondered if she could sense what I was thinking or feeling. Bonita was very perspective.
Does she know that hearing the word savage immediately has me think of ripping her clothes to shreds and jumping her bones? Or I don’t even need to hear the word, just watch her tilt her head to the side and strands of her brown hair fall to cover her eyes, and I want to grab her by the back of her head and pull her to me for a long, tight embrace.
I cleared my throat. I had to speak, but no words came to me—other than “yes, I’m savage. I will grab you and carry you away to my cave and ravish you from now till morning” Thankfully, I had the good sense not to say those words aloud.
“You worked up a good sweat, did you?”
I jerked my head toward Mrs. Morales. “Huh? What?”
“I bet you worked up a good appetite, too,” she continued. “I hope I made enough.”
She was obviously talking about our morning sparring session, but I was flummoxed. My mind was still with Bonita, wrestling her to the ground in a dimly lit cave. I coughed, pretending something was caught in my throat, hoping that might help cover how red in the face I must have been.
“Don’t die on me yet,” said Guillermo.
“What do you mean ‘yet?’” I said.
Guillermo shrugged. “I mean, the tournament’s in three weeks. Stay alive for three weeks.”
“Then I can die?”
Guillermo pondered the question. “Best not. If I win, there are always Olympic try-outs. And I’ll need you for those.”
“Hey, knock it off,” said Mrs. Morales, and she pounded a fist on the table in case her booming voice hadn’t delivered the message well enough. “You don’t talk like that.”
Guillermo threw his hands into the air in surrender. “I was just teasing. Of course, I don’t want Noah to die.”
Mrs. Morales shook her head and swatted his words away. “Not that. You don’t say ‘if I win.’” She tapped her temple with her index finger. “The power of positive thinking, Guillermo. Think positive.”
Guillermo nodded and looked down at his empty plate.
I could tell from the look of him that he’d heard his mom talk like that before. Hell, I’d heard Mrs. Morales talk like that before. She meant well; that was obvious. But she did tend to correct and control: don’t eat from the platter; don’t use the word “if.”
I caught Bonita looking down at her plate, too. She had experienced more than her fair share of Mrs. Morales’s “guiding instruction,” and I’d seen her drop her head and bite her tongue on more than a few occasions.
We endured an awkward moment of silence, but it was brief. Mr. Morales came home, and the five of us tore into the heaping plates of food before us like—well, like savages.
