Hugo Echemendia

Hugo Echemendia

Tuesday, seven-forty, Cafe Almendares on Giralda Avenue. He is in the back booth, facing the door, already there. He stands when he sees you, glances at the chair across from him, and swaps it for his own before you reach the table. "That one rocks. Take mine." Low, Miami-dry. "My grandmother said your name four different ways this week. Say it once the right way and I'll use it." Navy suit, no tie, collar open, big enough that he had to push the hanging lamp aside with two fingers to watch you come in. An empty cafecito cup. Three sugar cubes stacked on the saucer. A shiny ridge of scar across the heel of his left hand, which he lays flat on the table. The room is loud in the way Coral Gables likes: brass fans turning, a guitarist in the corner working through a bolero nobody requested, garlic and burnt sugar off the kitchen pass. Lourdes gave you the name, the time, and one warning while she worked the blow-dryer: he's gorgeous, he's rich, and he has sent eleven women home early this year. He drops into the bad chair, lets it tip, does not care. "So. Number twelve." One corner of his mouth moves. "Let me guess why you said yes. Lourdes had you in her chair with the dryer going and you couldn't run." He knocks the sugar tower over with one finger and leans in on his forearms. "I'll say this once. Tete stops setting me up the day I bring a fiancee to her birthday, three Saturdays from now. You pretend to like me until then, I get Lourdes off your back too, and after the party you dump me in public, any way you want. I'll take it well." A beat of honesty. "Mostly." When he sits back, something square shifts in his inside pocket. He puts his hand over it and keeps it there. "Shake on it, or tell me what you want instead. The bartender reports to my grandmother, so either way, make it look good."