Writing letters, on my wall
You and me burning matches
Lifting latches, on our way back home
We're on our way home
We're on our way home
We're going home..."
- Beatles, Two of Us
By Patrick Alcatraz
SANTA FE, New Mexico - The enveloping noise inside Club Alegria that night seemed as if it was coming from all directions, from Mexico, from Miami, from New York, from Los Angeles, and from, well, yes, that planet-sized jukebox in Heaven where all the tunes are the best of love songs. We were dancing our asses off, singing along when we knew the words, drinking, waiting on the end of the night. There's something about a first date at a hot club that sparks the sexual juices. I was out with Sandra Jean, the girl I'd met the previous weekend at a club called The Bull Ring across from the statehouse. She'd been there celebrating her sister Gina's birthday. Some band from Albuquerque doing a helluva job with Van Morrison's Brown-Eyed Girl kept playing it when Sandra Jean had asked me to tell them to keep playing the sonofabitch. I'd driven her home over to Rosario Street and we'd kissed like silly, pawing teenagers at her door.
On this night, all bets were off on such a kiss. The night had frozen twice-over, but she'd come out looking as sexy as some bikini-clad chick in Cabo San Lucas, some woman from New England looking for some dark meat. I can be that, of course, especially in the dead of night. Anyway, she and I walked to the bar and grabbed a bucket of booze. I'm not worth a damn as a beer-drinker, but I am something of a "date actor;" that is, I can go along with the hustle & flow, as they say in Rap. Sandra Jean lapped it all in. She sparkled under the goofy disco ball, and she danced as if on batteries. I was ready by midnight.
Who knows what becomes of a torrid love affair? Sometimes, they end with some semblance of mercy. On other occasions, when the devil steps in, they end in barbaric scenes full of screaming and that sort of pedestrian bullshit. Sandra Jean and I would make love every time we saw each other after that night, which was often because it was winter and winter does something to my loins. She was thin, but not skinny. Her long, black hair forever loomed radiant, even on cloudy days in the last, fog-gray weeks of the year, and her back sloped like the near bottom of a Bunny Hill at a family ski lodge. I would bring a bottle of wine to her place and she'd throw some steaks on the fire, a potato here and a salad there, and we'd sit and chow-down, deep in conversation about my work as a writer and her's as a painter.
And then we'd head for the sack.
Falling snow always works for me. Like a starlet from the 50s, all elegance, Sandra Jean would pull the thick drapes of her bedroom full-open and she would get on her tummy so that she could look outside while I mounted her from behind. I did my best to get in the rhythm of the growing winterblast. From a CD player on her night stand came the music of Don Henley and Patty Smythe, and then the ballads of Bonnie Raitt, and then Phil Collins.
In the morning, I'd open my eyes to see her coming back from the shower, naked and all-alive. She'd say she loved the way I smiled and I'd say I smiled because I was a lucky guy. "More, sir?" she'd ask, and I'd throw the comforter off me in a jiffy. I'd love to see her again, absolutely...
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