The taxi ride

He was a capitalist Gentile from New Orleans, and she was a communist Jew from New York.  They stepped from their office around midnight and into the taxi.

The windows were wide open.

Soft Caribbean air caressed their faces as the cabbie sped down the broad Avenida J.F. Kennedy.

She was married, but he stroked her hand anyway. Her husband, a communist Puerto Rican activist of local renown, did not know — and no one was going to tell him.

They got out at the capitalist’s place on Calle San Sebastian. She and her husband lived just a few blocks farther, but hubby believed her at work still.

After a few Cuba libres, her backside was stroked. Then they got up, dressed and walked toward her nearby home facing the sea. Amid the sound of waves, they kissed and said hasta mañana.

Filling the political gap in the Old Town with a twist of limón.

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