The Water Pitcher, Part I
The door opens, revealing that full night has arrived. Through it steps the man of her dreams, literally.
Despina gasps, "The 'no cigar store Indian!'" She is riveted.
"You look like a deer caught in the headlights of a Mac truck. You are going to be bowled over if you insist on wearing your heart on your sleeve like that."
Bradley cackles. "He's harmless. She's White. He's strictly Indian property."
The Indian has been carefully and methodically scanning the room. The thoroughness and intentness with which he does this is intimidating.
Before Despina has a chance to gather her wits about her, a small Hispanic man approaches.
"Con su permiso," he says, addressing Bradley as if he were her father or chaperon. He is diffident, excessively timid, even, and she finds herself dancing with him without even being able to remember his name, although he gave it.
As he turns her around on the dance floor, her eyes are constantly drawn to the large Indian figure, still standing just barely inside the door. She feels an electric jolt on one circle when their eyes meet. Soon the dance ends, and her polite escort returns her to Brad.
The Indian is suddenly there beside Bradley, replacing her former escort.
"Con su permiso," he mimics, giving a courtly half bow to Bradley, then holding out his hand to her, eyes locked on hers.
Hypnotized, she rises, and once on the dance floor, fails to keep her customary distance between their bodies. With a contented sigh, she leans her head against his chest. "A mi cuerpo le gusta much