She runs her fingers over my tattoo. “I've seen something like this in class. Its from an African myth” she says. She's an art history major, still in undergrad, and gorgeous. “See these tears?” she runs a finger now over the abstracted lines that fall from the mask-like face. Honestly, I never really thought of them as tears, though it seems obvious now. “He's crying for his lost brother, who has to go into the world first, to make it ready for him.” I'm not sure about this myth or this tattoo's origin, but I choose not to argue. We are doing well today, and she's not a woman to argue with.
She is a Miami Latina, working class, her own tattoos look more of the jailhouse variety. Big earrings, a lot of attitude, tough as nails. She resents the Florida blondes that she considers competition for male attention. One Sunday I make the mistake of proposing a morning picnic in the park and she says, “ I'm not really a park type of girl” and pours herself a glass of vodka. It is, at best, 9 am. This is a safari I am taking in someone else's life, I am passing through.
That summer she leaves for New York, not certain that she will return for a final year of college. She asks me to hold on to a few boxes for her, though we are seeing less of each other these days. When I go to pick up the boxes, there are other men around and I know she wants me to see that. One night, much later, when I must admit that I miss her, or at the very least, someone warm in my bed, I open the boxes and find them filled with books – real literature, Russian translated into Spanish, Spanish translated into English. The Somerset Maughum book Cakes and Ale is heavily worn and underlined. This woman is a mystery.
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