Earlier Natasha had felt so resolute. She had wanted to show Sawyer that the situation was nowhere near as sordid as she had imagined. But now she is just so bone tired. She feels soft and vulnerable, a whelk with its shell pulled off. It would be so easy to take a dab and rub it on her gums, just enough to help her feel normal, to allow her to help Sawyer forget all this with laughter and dancing and hard, fast, fucking. Addiction makes a liar of you, she's used to it. But Natasha reminds herself of the dread she felt when she thought it was all over. She thinks of everything she's done differently since Sawyer has been part of her life, how her world has opened up. She shoves the speed to the bottom of her wash bag and changes her clothes.
Usually when they walk together, Sawyer puts her fingers in the crook of Natasha's elbow and wraps her thumb around Natasha's firm bicep.
Today, Sawyer puts her arm around Natasha's back like she's her little lady. She's got her fingers curled up against Natasha's waist and every few steps she lightly digs them into Natasha's soft side like she's trying to make a baby laugh. Sawyer holds her other hand across her own body for Natasha's hand to hold. Sawyer gives her hand a squeeze every time they come across a dip in the sidewalk or a crossing. Natasha hates it, but tolerates it like she tolerates her mother calling her Princess.
After a few blocks Sawyer squeezes Natasha's hand, "Can you hear live music?"
Natasha concentrates, and she can hear trumpets and a drum from down a side street. They turn a corner, Natasha sees an open doorway where orange light spills out onto the sidewalk. It's a cold evening but inside the patrons have shrugged off their sweaters and jackets. People are dancing closely, rolling their hips together, and several couples have tangled their hands in each other's hair. Sawyer seems transfixed. "Oh, can we go in here?" she breathes.
There's a live band at the back of the bar on a small stage. Just a couple of drums, trumpets and one guy on the maracas. They're all grisly old guys wearing white, wide brimmed fedoras, and they play with such enthusiasm that it lifts Natasha's heart a bit.
"Have you danced salsa before? I've only done a little bit when I was in the chorus of West Side Story at college,"
Natasha hasn't, and she lets Sawyer lead her. Sawyer's a good little teacher, she clasps one of Natasha's hands and tucks her elbow under the other. She grins at Natasha when she copies the movement of Sawyer's hips and the steps she takes from side to side. Sawyer leaves enough space between them that she can bend her head to look at Natasha's feet. She squeezes Natasha's hand to remind her not to move on the fourth beat. Soon enough, Natasha feels confident enough to mirror Sawyer's footwork and takes little steps forward and back. She starts to enjoy, swinging her hips with more force and moving their bodies closer together.
Natasha watches another couple near them until she's able to twirl Sawyer under her arm. Sawyer bends her head and shoulders so she can fit under Natasha's arm, shrieks as Natasha twirls her once, then twice, then tips Sawyer back. Natasha pulls her in for a quick kiss. Sawyer shouts into Natasha's ear, "Dancing always makes me forget whatever I'm worrying about!"
Natasha knows enough of what Sawyer looks like when she's relaxed to know that she's lying, but she appreciates the effort. She keeps thinking of Lucia, reluctantly handing over her drugs to Natasha. She'd told Natasha she thought it was a stupid idea. She'd told Natasha that she should just speak to Sawyer about feeling anxious and tell her that she's working on her sobriety, doing the best she can. She wishes she'd taken that advice, she wishes she could go back to her own apartment and speak to Sawyer there. Maybe she would have laid out some of her old sketchbooks, showed her some of her creased and bookmarked books about addiction.
Sawyer fetches them some virgin mojitos and pulls out the umbrellas to poke into Natasha's hair. Natasha would usually love it, but tonight she plucks them back out and puts them back in their glasses. They rest against a pillar, and Sawyer wraps her hands around Natasha's hips, tries to keep them swaying to the beat as they take long pulls from their straws.
Natasha looks at the three framed photographs of Fidel Castro hung over the bar. She remembers long arguments with her dad over the dinner table about him. She wonders how many of these kids would be able to tell her anything about him.
"Sawyer, what do you think of Castro?"
"Isn't that Che Guevara? No? Oh, um. Yeah, the Missile Crisis, that was him. He was a dictator, wasn't he?"
"Depends on who you ask, I guess," says Natasha vaguely, "I'm going for a smoke."
Sawyer grabs her purse, "Oh, I'll come too!" She smiles brightly at Natasha. Sawyer stays inside when Natasha goes to smoke, but tonight Natasha could do with a short break from her determined cheerfulness.
In the smoking area Natasha finds a bench, Sawyer immediately sits on Natasha and starts playing with her hair. Natasha thinks about how stupid it is that they are able to sit on this particular bench because they've paid for a drink, but the panhandlers outside the small fenced off area aren't entitled to join them.
"My dad would agree with you," she says.
"Huh?"
"My dad thinks that one
