Date Night with El Presidente

(803 words)

“It tastes like pink!” Catalina giggled as she kicked off her d’orsay pumps and flopped onto the chaise lounge. “Like the color pink!”

Benicio regarded the young woman the way a wolf regards a lamb. He started at her pedicured toes painted with pretty, white polish. His gaze drifted up her smooth legs, lingered on the curve of her hips, nearly got stuck on the bulge of her backside, then continued along the sleek angles of her back, exposed by the deep cut of her slinky, silver dress. Her ability to be this tipsy only one sip into her second glass of rose’ was just another point on her long list of good qualities.

“Could a rose’ by any other name taste as sweet?” he mused, taking a seat at the end of the chaise. Catalina laughed, rolling over to look at him. Her face was as round and pale as the full moon, framed by locks of glossy, dark hair. Her big, brown eyes danced in the light of the fireplace.

“Could a sweet by any taste name rose’?” she took another sip and hiccupped.

Benicio rested his hand on her knee, stroking her soft skin with his thumb. “Mi amor, did you enjoy the evening?”

Catalina let her body melt into the cushions. She extended a leg, laying it across Benicio’s lap. “Honestly, Beni, your friends are boring.”

Benicio unfastened the top two buttons of his silk dress shirt. Firelight glinted off the hairs of his well-oiled moustache.
She continued, “All they ever talk about is military strategy and economic policy.”

“Oh, but, amor, these are not boring topics.”

Catalina rolled her eyes and sipped. “They put me to sleep.”

“Love,” began Benicio, walking his fingers up her leg, “and military strategy are one in the same.”

“You talk like a dictator,” Catalina scoffed.

“I am Presidente!” Benicio barked. He took a breath and ran a hand through his slicked back hair. His fingers came away sticky with gel, he wiped them on the chaise. He flashed her a smile and began again. “Love and military strategy are the same. Both are about deception.” He inched his arm across the back of the chaise. “Both are about aggression.” Quickly he shifted, pouncing on Catalina. “Both are about negotiating surrender.”

Catalina squealed as he buried his face in her neck.


At the stroke of midnight the door to Benicio’s office opened. Locked in their passionate embrace, neither lover heard the faint squeak of the hinges. Neither was aware they had company until a rough but sultry voice said, “Benicio, hijo de puta.”

Benicio whirled around prepared to sentence whoever had intruded upon him to indefinite detention. When he saw who had spoken, however, his face turned white and he let out a terrified screech.

“Maria!? W-what? But—but you’re dead!”

The woman standing at the end of the chaise was tall and slender. She was also his late wife, dead and buried two years ago. Her sharply angled face was in profile as she placed a cigarette between her lips and lit it. “You thought I was dead, Benicio, but, once again, you are wrong.”

She turned her head forward, revealing a gruesome sight. Scar tissue webbed across the left side of her face, pulling tight at the corner of her mouth.

“But, how? No one could survive that crash!”

“I could!” Maria snapped, waving her cigarette in the air. “Thank God I had one of my migraines that day. I asked Lupita to drive me. Had I been behind the wheel I would have ended up, well, like her.” She took a drag. “But, by the grace of God, I managed to walk away with my face only partially burned.”

Benicio jumped up. “This is ridiculous! You should not be here! Guards—”

“I wouldn’t shout like that.” A click sounded behind Benicio. He slowly turned his head. Catalina was still sprawled on the chaise. Only, now, she was pointing the barrel of a pistol at him and looking decidedly less intoxicated.

“Catalina?” he asked stupidly.

“Not Catalina,” Maria said, “Fernanda. Fernanda Martina Sosa Rossi.”

Benicio’s mouth dropped. “Rossi…you mean—”

“Yes. She is my sister. My half-sister. The product of an affair my father had with a traveling Peruvian contortionist named Isabella. I never even knew she existed until we met by chance. She was working as a nurse at the hospital where I recovered from my injuries.”

Benicio growled. “You won’t get away with this. If you hurt me, you’ll be ruined. They’ll hang your bodies from my statue in the town square!”

“Shut up!” Fernanda cocked the gun in her hand.

Maria dropped her cigarette and stomped it out on the pristine, red carpet. “You’re not Presidente anymore, Benicio.” She smirked. “It’s your turn to surrender.”