La Mar

I would be lying if I said I hadn’t always wanted a woman like her.

But I’d also be lying if I said I’d imagined a woman like her could even exist.

It wasn’t just her age–her maturity, I should call it. It was the way she carried herself: Regal, like a queen. Her dress was white, backless. I could see the outline of her white panties through it. My eyes traced the triangle back of them for an hour as I watched her from the other side of the restaurant. She never turned to look at me, but I had a feeling she knew I was there.

That’s why I took the dare from my friends to talk to her. It was our last day of our guy’s trip. We’d spent a week surfing in aquamarine colored water, popping straws into freshly picked coconuts, and lounging around in flip flops and shorts before we headed back to our cold apartments in Mexico City. This was our last night to have fun and maybe get a story to bring home with us.

We were messing around with each other all night. Enrique tried to hit on the bartender with the blonde braid, but she shot him down with a few words. Raul tried to talk to the two American girls a few seats away, but the moment they turned to look at him, he spun on his heel and raced back to us. We roared with laughter.

It’s not easy to approach women, as much as they think it might be. Especially a woman like her…

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