from me and when he looks at me he is looking me directly in the eye. Bold little sucker, isn’t he, and I feel a little uncomfortable, to be honest, but I stick my fork inside my waffle which for some reason I don’t want now.
“So how are you today?” he asks in his Jamaican accent but it sounds as if it’s tinged with a little bit of British. His voice is husky yet soft dreamy and wet kind of smooth and when he speaks it sounds like it’s coming from some honest place inside him, you can actually hear it.
“I’m fine. Just came back from a run so I wouldn’t get too close to me right now.”
“I saw you when you left,” he says.
This kind of surprises me. “You did?”
“Yes,” he says and once again those eyes are looking right inside me. I wish he would stop this. Sort of. “How long are you here for?”
“Eight days.”
“Got in last night, did you?”
“How’d you know?”
“I got here yesterday and I certainly would’ve noticed you.”
“Oh really.”
“Really,” he says as if he means it.
He is too cute and ought to just stop this little flirting action right now if that’s what he’s doing. “What’s your name, young man?”
“Winston Shakespeare,” he says. “And yours, young lady?”
He is being facetious. “Stella,” I say and then think: Did he just say Shakespeare? Yes, he did. And he looks serious. I wonder if this is a common surname in Jamaica. And of course he knows who the guy is. He has to know. But what I’m more curious about is if he relates to understands or enjoys tragedy.
“Nice to meet you, Stella,” he says and this time when he smiles he shows off a beautiful set of straight white teeth that’ve been hiding behind and under those succulent young lips. Stop it, Stella. He’s a child. A tall handsome sexy maple-syrup-colored child, but a child nevertheless. Why come they don’t come in this make and model in my age group is what I’m wondering.
“Where’s your husband?” he asks.
“What makes you think I have a husband?”
“I’m just assuming. Perhaps I shouldn’t assume.”
“I don’t have a husband.”
He seems pleased when I say this. But then again maybe it’s just my imagination.
“Did you come with your boyfriend?”
“You sure ask a lot of questions.”
“Isn’t that the only way to get an answer to something you’re curious about?”
“Well, of course it is. But why do you want to know?”
“Well, first of all most of the people here are usually couples and most of them are usually white and they’re either here to get married or they’re on their honeymoon. I thought you might fit in one of those categories.”
“Nope,” I say and take a sip of my coffee.
He sort of nods his head as if to the beat of some slow music and he then says, “Okay,” and he begins to delve into the mountain of confusion that is a mixture of rice eggs hominy and at least five different kinds of meat. As I watch him eat from one pile at a time I am somewhat amazed at how he seems to be savoring each distinct taste and yet he still dabs his mouth with his linen napkin in between bites and slowly returns it to his lap. He also blushes after he puts a little more in his mouth than he should’ve, and it is clear that he is hungry—he eats like a college student who’s come home for the weekend. I am watching him without realizing that I am actually staring but I can’t help it because what I see before me is a kind of tenderness and innocence I haven’t seen in a man in a long time. It is refreshing and sad at once because he is so young and I am wondering when do men lose this quality? And how do they lose it?
“Are you on vacation?” I ask.
He shakes his head no. Chews and swallows. “I just finished my classes at the university in Kingston and I’m here hoping to land a summer job as a chef’s apprentice, something in food preparation or whatever I can get, really. And what about you, where are you from in the
“So how are you today?” he asks in his Jamaican accent but it sounds as if it’s tinged with a little bit of British. His voice is husky yet soft dreamy and wet kind of smooth and when he speaks it sounds like it’s coming from some honest place inside him, you can actually hear it.
“I’m fine. Just came back from a run so I wouldn’t get too close to me right now.”
“I saw you when you left,” he says.
This kind of surprises me. “You did?”
“Yes,” he says and once again those eyes are looking right inside me. I wish he would stop this. Sort of. “How long are you here for?”
“Eight days.”
“Got in last night, did you?”
“How’d you know?”
“I got here yesterday and I certainly would’ve noticed you.”
“Oh really.”
“Really,” he says as if he means it.
He is too cute and ought to just stop this little flirting action right now if that’s what he’s doing. “What’s your name, young man?”
“Winston Shakespeare,” he says. “And yours, young lady?”
He is being facetious. “Stella,” I say and then think: Did he just say Shakespeare? Yes, he did. And he looks serious. I wonder if this is a common surname in Jamaica. And of course he knows who the guy is. He has to know. But what I’m more curious about is if he relates to understands or enjoys tragedy.
“Nice to meet you, Stella,” he says and this time when he smiles he shows off a beautiful set of straight white teeth that’ve been hiding behind and under those succulent young lips. Stop it, Stella. He’s a child. A tall handsome sexy maple-syrup-colored child, but a child nevertheless. Why come they don’t come in this make and model in my age group is what I’m wondering.
“Where’s your husband?” he asks.
“What makes you think I have a husband?”
“I’m just assuming. Perhaps I shouldn’t assume.”
“I don’t have a husband.”
He seems pleased when I say this. But then again maybe it’s just my imagination.
“Did you come with your boyfriend?”
“You sure ask a lot of questions.”
“Isn’t that the only way to get an answer to something you’re curious about?”
“Well, of course it is. But why do you want to know?”
“Well, first of all most of the people here are usually couples and most of them are usually white and they’re either here to get married or they’re on their honeymoon. I thought you might fit in one of those categories.”
“Nope,” I say and take a sip of my coffee.
He sort of nods his head as if to the beat of some slow music and he then says, “Okay,” and he begins to delve into the mountain of confusion that is a mixture of rice eggs hominy and at least five different kinds of meat. As I watch him eat from one pile at a time I am somewhat amazed at how he seems to be savoring each distinct taste and yet he still dabs his mouth with his linen napkin in between bites and slowly returns it to his lap. He also blushes after he puts a little more in his mouth than he should’ve, and it is clear that he is hungry—he eats like a college student who’s come home for the weekend. I am watching him without realizing that I am actually staring but I can’t help it because what I see before me is a kind of tenderness and innocence I haven’t seen in a man in a long time. It is refreshing and sad at once because he is so young and I am wondering when do men lose this quality? And how do they lose it?
“Are you on vacation?” I ask.
He shakes his head no. Chews and swallows. “I just finished my classes at the university in Kingston and I’m here hoping to land a summer job as a chef’s apprentice, something in food preparation or whatever I can get, really. And what about you, where are you from in the
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