The first time I experienced it was at the breakfast buffet of the Serine Resort in Varadero, Matanzas, Cuba. My husband and I had just flown in from Toronto for our honeymoon, a joint wedding gift from both sets of parents. It was our first morning there together and I was still groggy from the night before. We were in a long line of people, most of them dressed in their bathing suits and carrying towels over their shoulders. I had on a neon pink bikini, which I wore beneath a gauzy white skirt and black tank top, with rope soled thong sandals and white sunglasses. He was dressed in navy blue shorts and a white band tee shirt. Black wraparounds obscured his eyes.
We hadn't spoken more than a few words to each other since the previous evening—just the quiet smiles of a newlywed couple—and I can remember to this day the delicious afterglow of newlywed sex that we basked in. I can recall with ease the love I felt for him, the lust that made me want to forego breakfast altogether—I had suggested as much—but which I had somehow contained in order to satisfy the simpler of his two needs.
Matt never liked to miss a meal.
Just thinking his name brought to mind his presence behind me. He was close: so close, a warm reassurance of the rightness of my world. I knew that he wanted me as much as I wanted him. And I also knew that I couldn't wait to get back to the room so I could be alone with him, just the two of us.
The line moved slowly. The servers behind the sneeze barriers seemed half asleep, like I was, and doled out portions of the resort's meager offering of fresh food—omelets made to order, waffles with cane sugar syrup—as if they knew how desperately I wanted to be done with it all. When offered, I took one of the waffles. It was dark brown and crispy and looked delicious. Moving past the servers, I came to the hot table, where trays of premade food sat under bright red heat lamps: hash brown potatoes, scrambled eggs, sausages and bacon.
I remember I picked up the bacon tongs, thinking I would grab a crispy piece, since they tend to have less fat and less chance of being underdone. But before I could actually do so, I felt Matt's hand close over mine.
"You don't need that," he said gently.
"What—"
"You know you'll regret it later. Besides, you always get sick when you eat pork."
"But I want some bacon," I persisted.
His grip tightened.
"No. You don't."
His voice was quiet but, nevertheless, people at the nearby tables turned to look at us.
"Matt," I whispered, "Let go of me. Please. People are staring."
