Club Med, there is a girl in the village. A beautiful, vulnerable girl, young. Possesses a crooked smile, an open heart; searching for love. Searching for nature’s ecstasy that flows from life’s intimacies.

There she stands: Club Med, middle of a crowd, absorbing fiesta music, clumsy steps of dance, and a blur of arms and faces. There, moving together to beats of orchestrated laughter. She feels warm, not from the sea breeze, nor sweet liquor settling in her stomach. Warm from the stranger’s arm that rests upon her shoulder, swaying. As people twirl, run circles about her, she sees a man, a short, dark man standing above. Nothing special about him, apart his boyish smile. That mischievous smile, a tempting smile, daring. And as the girl begins to leave, as she turns from the eddy, he snatches her by the hand, asking her to dance. So she dances.

She follows him to his room. Follows him to his G.O room next to the Mini Club. Room is a mess, has a sweet smell, pink walls, girlish pink walls. Room contains solely toilet, shower and bed.

There she sits, dressed in white, on the edge of white covers, pink trimmed covers, in red heals, hands resting delicately upon crossed legs. With a couple smiles, sweet syllables and fewer words he has her pinned to the wall, pinned to pink walls, in red heals, red lines trickling to the tips of her shoes. And as his dark weight crushes down on her delicate frame, as she struggles to catch her breath, she has never felt so light.

He looks her in the eyes, looks deeply into her trusting eyes, and tells her to lie on his chest. So she lies as he runs his fingers up and down her spine, up and down tracing invisible lines, encrypting a message, up and down, seeping deep into her skin. He sends her tingling vibrations that start in the tips of her toes, running all the way up, escaping her lips in genuine laughter. And she laughs as she reads his thoughts.

For two weeks he sings her spanish lullabies, two weeks he worships her: you ar so, so butiful, I luv yur smile. He wraps her in a towel as she leaves the shower, wraps her in his arms. He sweeps the wisps of hair covering her face, delicately sweeps them behind her ears; kisses her forehead. He lights her cigarettes, he holds her drinks. Two weeks he feeds her sweet lies; and for two weeks she relishes every words as if it were foreign candy.

She comes to his room one last night, delighted. She comes to his room, red heals, flushed face, intending to quickly and quietly sneak through the glass door. Intends to brush aside the heavy curtain and find him asleep, bare, uncovered, laying on his back, hands cupped on his chest. Standing still a moment, she listens to his snores, admires the scar that runs half the length and width of his stomach, that unmentionable scar. Softly, gently, she crawls into bed, leaving a kiss upon his naked shoulder. Finally, laying comfortably beside him, shuts her eyes. She comes to his room one last night, delighted, intending to find the door unlocked.

The boy never said goodbye. At the end of two weeks he never watched her leave, nor did he care where she was going. He never offered reason nor reassurance, never bothered to explain. He just dropped her. When she had placed herself in his hands, he simply dropped her. When she had interpreted his every sound, wondered at his every touch; that simple.

She dreams of him. Dreams in his broken english, his terrible, terribly endearing english, his smooth voice. She sees the Mexican smile, that awful, ensnaring, unattainable smile. Still tastes his fresh breath, his minty, cool fresh breath. Her heart is at war between wishing to hold him and hoping to hurt him. The insanity being: shedding tears for him hurts more than the pain of missing or hating.

For all he robbed the boy left her power. He’s afraid of the girl. Afraid because she was too young; because innocence made her right and age, him wrong. She won’t forget but may forgive. She won’t be vengeful but may be hopeful. If the heart can miss, want, love and hate all so passionately and simultaneously it is surely capable of more, much more.

55 Creek Lake, there is a girl at home; wounded and broken, mixed up and confused, but strong. Girl, with a new found understanding for love. One who finds that it rests on a brink. Finds it a trick of balance, the ledge between falling in or out slim; summits: endless. Love is walking a line, a devious line, in red heals. But no matter the heights form which she falls, this girl will land standing.

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