Three of us sat down to a late night drink under half a roof and a smattering of stars. There was fragrant French wine (red), juicy jamon serrano (moistly pink), and a warm balmy night (inky sky). Across our table was a nice view—vaguely Spanish looking guys who languidly drank beers and swirled cigarette smoke. Two of the guys were cute. I was glad to note that my 35 year old libido is apparently alive and well, and more than willing to ogle.
Inside the Cuban-themed resto/bar, people were clearly on their last round. Some were using the merciless Latin music as an excuse to gyrate in pairs near the bar. A couple of foreigners were flirting openly, laughing high and loud, showing off their artfully slanted profiles in the amber light. A trio of trannies did a let’s-pretend-we’re-drunk conga outside on the patio, Adam’s apples bobbing in the glow of Christmas lights. It was a Pedro Almodovar evening, a dream-like revelry with touches of the bizarre. How very appropriate.
I was sloshed on wine and atmosphere and laughter and stories; inebriated in a really good way. I went home in the early morning hours, home to my soft bed, snuggling close to my sweet-smelling little boy. Sleep came swiftly; I don’t think there were any dreams. And that’s how I marked my 35th.