8
David
When I open my eyes, it’s just after seven. Springing out of bed, I am ready to relax and enjoy a week with Val. I wander over to the window, throw back the curtains, and gaze at the lush green mountains in the distance. It’s beautiful outside, the sun is shining, and it’s a glorious day to be alive.
As I deep breathe through my ten-minute morning yoga routine, I visualize our day— breakfast, a leisurely walk around the grounds, and maybe an early dinner in town.
When I approach the adjoining door to Val’s room, I hear the water running. She’s up and at ‘em—already in the shower. That’s my girl. After throwing on a T-shirt and cargo shorts, I slide my feet into a pair of flip-flops and head out the door.
I make my way down the pathway through a tropical garden oasis filled with an array of fragrant orchids. When I reach the outdoor seating area, I see the owner behind the bar. With her thick black hair tied back in a ponytail, she’s wearing her signature floral apron over her dress. She has a bowl of oranges in front of her and is making freshly squeezed juice for the guests.
“Hola, Manuela,” I wave. “¿Como estás?”
“Daveed!” she exclaims, her eyes smiling. “Estoy bien, ¿y tú?”
“Excelente!” I reply. Sneaking behind the bar, I give her a hug.
“¿Qué te gustaría?” she asks, what would I like?
“Dos cafés, por favor,” I reply, taking a seat on a bright green bar stool.
“¿Dos?” she questions, a puzzled expression crossing her face. “Two?”
“Para mi amiga.” For my friend, I say.
“Sí, sí, la mujer,” she winks.
Yes, the woman.
With two hot coffees in hand-painted cups, I stroll back toward my room. As I turn the corner, from a distance, I can see Val through the window. Slowing my pace, I watch as she gets dressed, seemingly not knowing her room faces the garden area. I inch my way closer almost to her door when she turns and looks straight out the window. Her jaw drops as she crosses her arms over her bra-covered chest and ducks from view.
I take a seat on one of the wicker chairs outside her room. Two minutes later, she opens the door, fully dressed, her face slightly flushed.
“Coffee,” I say, passing a cup to her.
“I didn't know room service was included.” Taking the cup from my hands, she sits down on the chair next to me. “This place looks completely different in the daytime. And I had no idea my window faced a public area.”
“Now, you do.” Raising the cup to my lips, I take a long sip, savoring the taste.
“This is excellent coffee. I’ll have to buy some to take home.”
“So, what would you like to do today?”
“Oh, I don't know, I thought you had to work?”
“Not today. We’re only staying here another night before we fly to a different location.”
“Okay, whatever you say. This whole trip slash vacation is your deal. I’m just tagging along for the ride.”
Whatever I say is right. She sure is learning quickly. I like that. This obedience is something I could definitely get used to.
At breakfast, she orders an omelette con queso, and I have my favorite dish, huevos rancheros. Between bites, we make small talk until I purposely direct the conversation to discuss news and current events. It’s my way of gauging her knowledge and interest in what’s happening in the world. If a woman can carry a conversation with me and complete more than two sentences, it tells me I have found someone I can work with.
Manuela comes over to top off our coffees with a cat trailing behind her.
“Here kitty, kitty,” Val says in a high-pitched voice. She leans over in her chair to pet the furry little creature. “He slept with me last night.”
“Who did? The cat?” A twinge of jealousy stirs inside me.
“Yeah, it was around midnight when I heard a scratching at the door. At first, I didn't know what it was, and then I heard a meow. As soon as I opened the door, he ran inside as if he owned the place. He hopped up onto the bed and slept right beside me.”
“You shouldn’t be opening the door at night,” I say, my voice stern. “Not here or anywhere else, for that matter, but especially not here,” I emphasize. Holding her gaze, I wait for a reply.
“Sorry, but he wanted to come in.” She continues to pet him, stroking his back. “Besides, who could say no to this cute little guy?” She flashes me a set of puppy dog eyes.
“Next time, it might not be a cute little guy. It might be a big, mean old man holding a machete.” Raising my arm, I pretend to hold a long knife in my hand and slash the air. She stares at me with fear in her eyes. “Then what would you have done?” I ask, holding her gaze.
Silence. Crickets. She doesn’t know what to say.
“I'm sorry,” she finally mutters, glancing down at the feline. “I guess I cave when it comes to animals, especially cats.”
Please don't tell me she’s one of those crazy cat ladies. I’m allergic to them both: cats and crazy women.
After breakfast, we walk the grounds, not a word out of Val's mouth as she takes in the sights. I imagine she’s still upset because I semi-scolded her for being so naïve about her midnight visitor. Did she momentarily forget she’s in a foreign country?
I force myself to give her a pass; she clearly didn't know any better. At least now, I know one of her weaknesses—cute fuzzy animals. I wonder if she’s the type to dress them up in absurd little outfits. You see it everywhere in LA. Mini-Poodles and Pomeranians dressed in pink tutus with their toenails painted to match. If they're not being toted around in some overpriced
