moons and memory

Saturday night. 


The end of the week for English-speaking countries -- though we insist on putting Sunday at the start of the week, but still call it part of the week-end.  And we wonder why our Mexicans neighbors find us culturally-challenged.


It is one of those Saturday nights that will hang around the nostalgia hall of my memory -- to reappear at some time in the future, usually when least expected and unbidden, triggered by some sound, sight, or scent.  Eager as a four-year old to please with its witty meaning.


The night was simply sybaritic -- sensuous, but in a different part of town from the Hedonists.  And not the night's activities.  The night itself.


I had dinner with a woman I met at a fund-raiser to preserve our laguna.  But it was the night that will be memorable.


Even with a half-moon brightening the sky, we could see stars that are light-shrouded on most nights.  Orion's belt was as big as a lucha libre buckle.


And the air.  Warm, of course.  Melaque air in January is expected to be warm -- a truth as constant as a mother's love.


But tonight's air was different.  A very distinct scent hanging in the air.  From some flower desperately wooing creatures of the night to assist her in propagating her own -- with the promise of perfume.  Her desperation was our joy.


Not the type perfume your Aunt Rose wore: all lavender with sachet packets and crocheted hankies pinned to her bosom with an amber brooch. 


No.  This was a subtle scent.  As if Sônia Braga had glided past your table minutes before on her way from the dance floor.  The type of scent that reminds you of -- tonight.


Perfume. Stars.  And the sounds of geckos, crickets, and the occasional splash of something vaguely dangerous on the shore of the laguna.


And maybe more.


But undoubtedly a night that will be remembered -- somewhere -- some time.