Thicker Than Water

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THE DAY WAS a perfect one for a festival: the sky a perfect deep blue, and the sun mitigated by a cool breeze coming off the aqua and green ocean waters. The infectious rhythm of salsa mixed with voices in a kaleidoscope of languages, moving through air filled with spicy scents and the pungent aroma of Cuban coffee.

One tall, one shorter, one dark, the other fair—but both had the same subtle confidence and the tanned skin of a native, and they rambled through the Latin festival with a sense of comfortable familiarity.

The shorter, blond one stopped at a stall and examined a long, striped skirt in a multitude of loud colors. “What do you think, Dar?” she asked, holding it up to her body. “Is it me?”

Her taller companion studied the effect. “Only if you’re Car-men Miranda on mescaline.” Dar plucked the skirt from the blonde’s fingers and hung it back up. “C’mon, Kerry. I think I see something more your style.”

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