Caramel Flava

“Well…That one’s kind of true. I’ll tell you later.”

“Then tell me: why did you say those things?” Oscar asked.

“I wanted you to think I was bad. So you wouldn’t…”

“Wouldn’t what?”

She burst into tears. “So you wouldn’t love me!”

Some of the force, the violence of Carnaval had ebbed, moved on. Oscar looked at this girl, this most unusual girl. Tears stained her miserable face. Mazatlán rushed by, the streets, the clutter, the noise. Sunny Mazatlán. “What,” he asked her, “is wrong with love?”

“Only someone who’s never been hurt would ask that.” She wiped her eyes. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Oscar laughed. “I’m getting used to being with a good girl.”

“I suppose I could be a little bad. For you.”

“Bad is good,” he said. “Sometimes.” They kissed, and he held her close.

Open House

Casa para la venta

James W. Lewis

Man, this will be fun, I thought. I can’t wait!

“Welcome to Rancho Hills,” the pretty redheaded sales rep said, interrupting my private conversation. “Have you two been here before?”

“No,” I replied, staring at dozens of toy house models under a large glass table. Red “Sold Out” magnets covered at least ninety percent of the mini-homes, which was typical for a new housing development in Northern California.

“What’s the square footage of your largest house?” my wife, Sonya, asked.

“Plan three is a 3,680-square-foot, four bedroom, our largest model.” The rep pointed to a corner table. An older woman stood next to the table with a wide customer service smile. “We have brochures with the info you need.”

The older woman handed us two brochures. “Thank you,” I said. I tapped Sonya’s elbow, turned, and then pushed the glass door that led to the three models.

The older woman held the door for us. “Just a reminder, we’ll be closing in fifteen minutes.”

“Okay,” Sonya said, slipping her hand into mine. “We’ll be back soon.”

My wife pulled me away. Outside, we double-timed past the first two models. The hem of Sonya’s white summer dress bounced against her ample backside, her dark-brown legs as smooth as buttermilk.

“Slow down, babe,” I said, laughing. “What about the other models?”

She didn’t turn. “Don’t have much time. Gotta hurry. Anda más rapido.”

I smiled. “I’m walking fast, babe!”

My wife…boy…damn! I loved when Sonya would flip between English and Spanish. Her tossed Spanglish vocabulary always boiled my horny blood cells, even after years of an up-and-down marriage. Because of her, I “hablo español” with the best of ’em.

Of course, being Dominican burned something within me, too. Ever since I saw Rita Moreno on The Electric Company back in the day, I always had a lit flame for Latinas. No wonder I married one.

While run-walking, I stared at the Spanish Colonial–style mansion with multicolored concrete tiles for a roof. It definitely had a trendy, MTV Cribs look. Very nice.

We stepped up the curvy entryway. I peeped at the sectional garage doors and thought how perfect it would be to have separate spots for our rides.

“Nice, huh?” Sonya said, now standing near the entrance. The raised panel door stood at least ten feet high.