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Over a sobremesa, sofrito still filling the air; thick, now with buds permeating the dominance of cilantro, tomato, onion, red and green pepper, garlic and parsley; he exhaled, holding the cigar to the tip of his lips, swishing, tasting and exhaling as he watched her hips swivel across the terra cotta tile, “Yemaya y Ochún”, courtesy of India and Louie Vega, like an invisible partner stepping for the guy with less hip and foot work.
What he was able to do, was mimic the beat on the mesa de la cocina with deft hands. And she did, as always, turned, wooden spoon in hand, an exaggerated stance, arms widening; fully in tune with her sister spirit. Her brown eyes smiling, beckoning him out of his chair. Cali made her way to her owner; he pulled her close, by the waist; his right hand with a firm grip around her throat as her eyes lit into fire; a smirk forming. Her master manipulated her face, turning her neck and sinking his teeth into her. Cali’s eyes rolled and her giggle was that of a teenage girl telling her best friends forever about making out with her dream guy.
The Black Dante wiped away blood from the corners of his mouth, satiated…for now. As the horns of “Vivir Lo Nuestro” began to play. Since mere kids when they first met at two-hundred and twenty-one years, the Black Dante randomly thought of Cali, her unmistakable presence; the way her eyes fixed on him. After years of obligations fulfilled, he knew this was their time.
Even if her blood had been deemed forbidden and death was certain; this is what drove Dante’s obsession. And Cali, knowing more than Dante thought she did, enabled him.
Sacrifice.
