Page 22 of Portrait of A Lost Artist
My hands let go of the table as if it had caught on fire, and I turned to look at him with my arms crossed over my chest. I chuckle curtly. “Uh, what doesn’t work?”
“Hiding from me. I would recognize you in a room full of people.” I’m surprised to hear him pick up more words in Spanish, though he diverts his speech to English soon after. “It also is in my favor that you’re the only person I know here, but hey, let’s pretend I was sleek here.”
Nathan licks the corner of his mouth and a million sins dance through my mind. The kind of movements that mouth must do; over my mouth, my neck, any place that he wants to touch, should not be something crossing my mind.
“Sleek because you’re handsome. Anyone else who'd try to say that would creep me out.” I joke around, toying with the elastic at the end of my hair, keeping the braid together, as I toss my hair over my shoulder. That motion caught his attention; his eyes drifted to my chest before returning to my face with a soft smile. “I wasn’t hiding, by the way.”
“Oh, yeah, sure.” Nathan jokes, rolling his eyes before picking a corner of his jacket to bring it up to his face. Only his orbits are shown through a small slit before he adds: “You were like this. I was about to go back home.”
“No...” I drag, tossing one look at the dance floor before clearing my throat. “So you told me you don’t drink in one of those letters, so I was thinking we could snack a bit, maybe dance after—”
“Snacks, yes,” Nathan sits down next to me, inviting me to sit across from him. Once I do, our legs touch; the heat from the pub pales in comparison to the warmth radiating from his thighs, intertwined with mine. “Dancing? Trust me, you wouldn’t want me to dance.”
“Too good?”
“Too bad.”
“Dancing comes naturally. You don’t have to be good at it.” I tell him, watching him pick another guava cake bar. “Diabetes is calling. They want you to call them back.”
“These are good. I heard from my friend that this is Guava. Would you believe me if I said I hadn’t had Guava in my whole life?” Nathan questions, only to have me humming.
“Probably. It’s a very Caribbean fruit.” Soon after, I’m spreading my hands in front of the table, as if to announce the cuisines ahead of us. “These are all courtesy of Aseré. My mom made these based on Alessia’s favorite meals. This is Cuban representation at their finest, and some burgers on the side.”
“I’m avoiding those. I want to try the others first.”
“Better be quick. Latinos are known for eating a lot while drinking. They’ll be gone before you know it.” Nathan’s hand hovers on the plates before he grabs a small shot glass that includesarroz con leche. “That one is simple. We call it ‘arroz con leche’. Rice with milk.”
He dips the small spoon inside, opens his mouth, and uses his tongue to scoop the contents off while humming softly. “It’s nice. It tastes like it has cinnamon on it.”
“It’s nothing eccentric. I’d call it an appetizer.”
I pick up some fried yucca from the table, which is shaped like sticks, and pop a piece into my mouth. Just then, Nathan snatches it from my hand, dips it into arroz con leche, and devours the rest.
“Nathan!”
“What?”
“Those two shouldn’t go together.”
“Just try it. It adds some crunchiness to it.”
Much to his delight, he takes another yucca stick and dips it in another shot glass, placing it in front of my mouth.
I part my lips, biting one corner before wrinkling my nose. The saltiness of the yucca clashes with the sweetness of the milky rice.
“This is madness.”
Nathan chuckles at my words, though he tries the strange mixture again.
“So, whose birthday is it?”
“Alessia's. She's my best friend. The bright blonde with the even brighter yellow two-piece.” I tell him, twirling in the stool to point to him where she is dancing between two guys, hips swinging from side to side, one arm wrapped around one of their shoulders, the other holding a bottle of beer.
“I didn’t know what to bring her, but I’m willing to buy her a gift after...as in, giving it to her through you,” Nathan explains, but I shake my head.
“No need. I’m sure she won’t mind, and you’re here to meet some people, not to force connections.” I smile at him as he continues munching on food, dumbed down by the richness of flavor that merges in his mouth. “I’m sure this is nothing compared to the parties in L.A.”
“You wouldn’t be wrong. This is much smaller,” He stops, giving me a bright-eyed once-over. “But I prefer it this way.”
