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They walked around, refreshed and invigorated. Phoebe’s flat was located in a better part of the capital, where there were no real rich people but more artists and nice local families. The sun beat on them, but they were draining the Costa Rican humidity from their bones and didn’t care. When dusk began to fall, they went back to the dim apartment and sat on the porch, where there was a straw mat, quietly talking. In the flat below them, they could hear the strains of a guitar, which began to play a strange, romantic melody that sounded familiar but not quite there. Chris slipped his arm around her waist and she leaned against his shoulder. By and by he rubbed her strong back, occasionally reaching her shoulder blades. They were silent, listening to the crickets chirp and a mother lazily scolding her boy in a monotone. By the time it was pitch black outside, he slipped one of her dress straps down below her shoulder. She stirred, and looked at him, but his facial expressions were. Jenny… he recognized that it was her, despite the strange garb, long blonde hair tied up in a ponytail and garbed in the feature-concealing shadows of the room… began to move in liquid sway, first raising her hands skyward and then unleashing a rhythmic dance that flowed like undertow, seeming to pull his feet from beneath him. Holy smoke, he thought, aware of a growing erection. This is what really erotic dancing is about. Not overt and raw sexuality, but hinting and teasing at the delights that lay concealed behind a thin veneer of beautiful music and sinuous motion. His girlfriend’s face was unreadable in the darkness, but she was communicating with him in a different way, entirely nonverbal, using her body to speak to him. First gesturing to him with open palms, keeping him at arms length, turning and whirling dervish-like in place, kneeling, bending, twisting, always in motion, while never losing that graceful and rhythmic dancing. Colorful sashes drop away, fluttering into.
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