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.
