Then Mandal, like a Soviet gymnast, wearing an ankle to neck black painted on body suit, barefoot, whips out of a set of massive pine doors near the fireplace. She glides over to us, and I am again awed by her stunning beauty, for she is sliver, cut like the maniac upstairs, yet longer and taller and she is smiling as she takes my hand, leans in, kisses me on the lips, says “You look lovely, Clare, come, let’s see what’s what, I bet your hungry.”
Without a word, Oba trailing, smiling, she leads us to the dinner table. As we move I still feel the heat from her lips on my lips, making my insides begin to warm, what is happening to me?
Time passes as dinner is served. We are joined by a few Hispanic silent short men, Beto and Armida too. There is a cut of roast, hardy carrots, potatoes, tur
