In the night, the cadenced orientation of the strobe lights sketches geometric trajectories in the dark room. The icy condensation from the cocktail glass drips onto her fingers, caresses her nail polish, grazes the side slit of her evening dress, and evaporates before it touches the floor, the dance floor.

Her body, that of a femme fatale, stands between the clenched bodies of the dance floor. A beam of light pierces the darkness. It illuminates a Mediterranean chest – stronger than the bridle imposed by the buttons of his shirt – adorned with golden necklaces: symbols of faith turned into instruments of seduction. Sin is the antechamber to holiness.

She turns around, that’s him: Marcelo. She had long heard about him. Their gazes, perfect diagonals, get locked in the crowd. A cheeky smile reveals a golden tooth, the lights a shrouded sex bursting forth. His wink is a magnet. Often, words are a mere formality. Let’s make out.

Que rico.
Que lindo.
Te quiero.