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“It’s nice to meet you, Yara Marino. I’m Desidério Gabriel.”
“Desidério? I’ve never heard that name before.”
“You never heard of Desi Arnaz?”
My father loved the old “I Love Lucy” reruns. “Sure. Of course.”
“Then you know the name Desidério,” he tells me, pouring cachaça into the shaker. His eyes look directly into mine when he adds in a low voice: “In Italian it means “desired one.””
Of course it does.
He’s so full of himself, I can’t help smiling.
“You remind me of someone,” I tell him as he shakes up another drink for me.
“Someone famous?” he asks, then chuckles. “My ex called me: “The Poor Girl’s Caua Reymond.””
I shrug. “I don’t know who that is.”
“He’s a model, of course.” He winks at me. “And an actor. Very handsome.”
“Areyoua model and actor, moonlighting as a bartender?”
Lord knows he could be.
He shakes his head. “You flatter me, Yara, but I’m just a tour guide, making extra money as a bartender.”
“A tour guide? Really? That sounds fun.”
“Itcanbe,” he says, pouring my drink into a fresh glass, “as long as your clients aren’t—how you say?—Ah! A pain in the asses.”
“A pain in theass,” I correct him.
“Pé-no-saco,” he tells me, “em português.”
“Pé-no-saco,” I repeat, making him laugh with my wooden pronunciation. “I’m not apé-no-saco. I promise.”
“No,” he says, rinsing out the shaker for the second time. “You’re a warrior.”
“A w—warrior?” I choke a little on my drink, then clear my throat and insist: “I’m...No, I’m not. Where in the world did that come from?”
“Iara.”
I blink at him. “Yes?”
“No.” He laughs, leans closer to me. “Iara.She was a warrior. You’re named for her, yes?” I stare back at him. I have no idea what he’s talking about. “Your father never told you? About Iara, the Amazon princess warrior?”
I sip my drink, a lovely lightness coming over me as I lean my elbow on the bar and tilt my head to the side.
Desidério places his hands flat on the bar. They’re tan and veined, sprinkled with dark hair, sporting several silvery scars, and missing two nails. Man hands. Rugged hands that have done harder work than making Caipirinhas for rich tourists.
I have a vague impulse to lean down to lick them. Slowly. So that my tongue feels every groove and pucker, every bulging vein teeming with life.
“Yara, are you listening?”
“Ah-hem. Yes.Sí!”
I look up at him and a slow grin spreads his lips. Can he read my mind? Does he know how badly I want to taste him?
