Calle Obispo, Havana, August 16th, 1998
Electric currents surged up her spine, rising from her lower back to her head, bursting behind her eyes. Her husband sat right in front of her, eyes cold and wild, dripping with contemptuous arrogance.
Between them, the glass table held only an ashtray overflowing with cigarettes, burgundy lipstick smears stark against white porcelain. A chessboard would’ve made sense—but there wasn’t one. They were playing a different game.
“This staring contest is childish,” Leon said.
Luz raised an eyebrow as he kept his eyes open for minutes. Wiping sweat from her carefully made-up face, she fished the last cigarette from her bag and moved to the balcony.
The humid air was thick with the scent of weathered houses lining Calle Obispo. She bent over, watching shop owners lounging on benches outside cafes, jewelry stores, and clothing stalls. In the distance, boys strummed guitars, singing Cuban Bachata.
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