when I dressed in civilian clothes, I imagined his lustful eyes leering back at me through the mirror. That colour is perfect for you against your brown skin, Ameera; you should show off your back more — have you been exercising?
I hummed along with Katy Perry’s “Firework,” which blasted from the bar’s sound system. Enrique tended to the next person in his line, a giggling brunette in her twenties, who was momentarily caught in a ray of his sunshine. I swivelled my stool so I didn’t have to look at her.
I recognized a pair of men from my bus standing next to me. The two near-strangers were exchanging drunken holiday tales while they slurped cans of Tecate.
“Back in the DR, I stayed at a mega resort like this one. It was so big, me and my buddies stole one of them golf carts? But then we ended up smashing it into the kiddie playground. Yeah,” he said, nodding, acknowledging his new friend’s look of admiration, “I had a blast.”
“I was jailed in Cuba!” the other man pronounced. He told a disjointed, barely believable story about driving without a licence and successfully bribing a police officer with Chiclets and a ten-dollar bill. “Ten dollars Canadian!” he boasted.
Playground Destroyer wobbled on his sandaled feet. His wife brought him a grilled-cheese-and-ham sandwich. He grabbed her left buttock, picked up a triangle, and shouted, “Ham and cheese! I read about these sandwiches on TripGuide! Ham and cheese! Now this is the money shot! The money shot!”
I guffawed loudly, but they didn’t notice.
“Not so loud, hon,” the wife shushed, tucking herself into his embrace.
Just then Enrique made it to my end of the bar. I passed him my travel mug, and he filled it from a jug from under the counter.
“It’s my new drink. The Atlantis Mantis. Try it. I want your opinion.” I was about to protest that I’d wanted a Cuba Libre, but the warmth of his hand on my shoulder pacified me.
“What’s in it?” I peered into the dark liquid.
“Vodka, rum, mint leaves, cranberry juice, and ginger ale. Be careful. It’s sweet but fuerte.”
“Ham and cheese! The money shot!” The two men cheered, lifting their drinks above their heads. Enrique’s eyes darted to them and then back to me, his eyebrows raised in weary superiority. I pursed my lips, nodded, and said goodbye just before he disappeared across the bar.
“Hey look! Tim Hortons!” Jailed-in-Cuba Guy regaled, referring to the logo on my travel mug.
“Yup,” I replied.
“Hey, you’re not from Canada, are you?” Playground Destroyer asked.
“Uh-huh. From Ontario. Hamilton. The Tim Hortons capital of the world.” I took a swig of Enrique’s sweet drink and swayed to “Single Ladies,” mentally morphing into one of Beyonce’s backup dancers.
“Cool. I’d never’ve guessed. You look Mexican,” Jailed-in-Cuba Guy said.
“Yeah, I get that a lot.”
“So what are you?” Playground Destroyer asked.
What am I? I inhaled and remembered that although off-shift, I was still an Oceana employee. “Half South Asian. Half white. Where are you folks from?”
“Winnipeg,” The wife answered, raising her beer in a toast no one joined in on, “the friendliest city in Canada.”
∆
Back in my room, I flipped through the Chatelaine and O magazines that my mother had sent earlier that week. I wouldn’t have bought them myself — I preferred The New Yorker or Toronto Life — but English-language magazines were scarce in Huatulco and I appreciated her hand-me-downs. Curiously, the envelope contained both February and March issues. She usually sent them one at a time, mid-month, and I’d missed her package the previous month.
Chatelaine featured a jumble of Valentine’s Day crap. There was advice: “10 Ways to Spice Up Your Sex Life,” “Drive Him Wild in Bed,” and “5 Memorable Valentine’s Day Dates.” And of course there were quizzes: “What’s your Romance IQ?”
As I turned the pages, I paid close attention to where Mom may have lingered, mulling over which articles might have captured her attention. I noticed the mysteries of a partially ripped page, a recipe or coupon clipped. I liked to study the pop psychology quizzes she completed, always in pencil, and later erased. I’d squint at the faint lines and indentations that remained, analyzing her financial, relationship, or communication-style scores.
I skimmed her faded answers to “What’s Your Romance IQ?” Her score was thirty-two, a Timid Romantic. Not a shock; she hadn’t gone beyond a third date in years.
I completed the survey myself, pushing hard against the somnolence of the drink. I scored fifty-five, which made me a Ready for Anything Romantic.
Perhaps it was the Atlantis Mantis, but the online complainant’s judgment echoed: Sexually inappropriate.
I put down the magazine. Yes, I might have skated the line of appropriate. Sometimes I slept with Oceana tourists, which was technically not against the rules, but certainly would be frowned upon if word got to Anita. But I’d been discreet, and had learned to limit liaisons with guests to Thursdays, the night before their departures, in case anyone became too attached or uncomfortable. I avoided single male tourists, who had the tendency toward locker-room type bragging after the fact. Couples, on the other hand, were more reliable, their discretion guided by a respect for privacy or the taboo of their desires.
I knew my interests weren’t exactly the norm, but come on, they weren’t sexually inappropriate. I mean, there are plenty of weirder proclivities than an interest in threesomes. Still, I wondered who might have witnessed my dates with couples over the previous two and a half years. I’d have to try to be more careful.
I gulped back the rest of the Atlantis Mantis and switched off the light. A boozy heaviness took me over.
Azeez
∞
The evening sky was turning pink as I walked home from Nora’s. I found my two roommates drinking on our porch.
“Azeez, you’re moving out soon, eh?” Max flipped his blond dreadlocks off his face and a cloud of patchouli wafted my way.
“Yes. Tomorrow afternoon.” While I had mixed feelings about ending my sojourn in Canada, I was thoroughly ready to leave Max and Jonathan. Our house was a filthy, rundown mess. Over the five years I’d resided there, the place had deteriorated as tidier guys had moved on and only these two remained. There was always some kind of unidentifiable grime I’d have to clean off the tub before I could take a shower. I’d taken to wearing my outside shoes everywhere in the house except in my own bedroom.
“Have a drink with us.” Jonathan cleared a mouldy cardboard box off the folding chair next to him. Max passed me a beer.
They were smart fellows, PhD students entering their sixth year of studies and still a long way from completion. Canadian students were like that, never seeming to be in any hurry, not like us visa students with more limited budgets and under heavy expectation to finish. While my parents supervised me through weekly
