Martina sits across from me on the patio of the tiny studio where I am staying. Her push cart full of cleaning supplies is in the middle of the sandy road. She is wearing a yellow smock and blue jeans. I’m not wearing much anything. I close my laptop and ask if she wants coffee. In her lilting Caribbean voice she tells me that she just wants to talk.
We’ve known one another for a decade now. She is tall with jet black skin and a new haircut; meaning she doesn’t have much hair anymore and what she does have is red. It is striking and I miss the long black dregs that she used to wear. But I love Martina and she waits while I pour myself more coffee.
Once I fixed lunch for everybody that works here and they all hid out in the tiny little studio and we ate, told stories and laughed. I’ll cook sausage gravy and biscuits and people go nuts over it.
It goes back to my days at Jeff Street when on Sunday mornings I would fix it for a hundred homeless people every Sunday morning. It was the cheapest and most filling thing that I could prepare.
Martina asks me if I’ve cooked any. I tell her no and she shrugs her shoulder. I sit back down with my coffee.
“Oh my God Mike,” she says in this exaggerated fashion placing her palm on her forehead, “you were just measurable. You looked like shit. It was terrible.”
I stare at her as water wells in my eyes.
Martina never really looks at me when she talks. She looks all around me and our eyes lock for only the briefest of moments. It makes me think of my best friends when we talk or don’t talk our eyes remain locked on one another.
When she first saw me this morning she screamed “Oh you’re here!” and she left her cart in the sandy road, hugged me and kissed me, and then sat down. That was an hour ago.
“Where is Mike and Hania?” she asks in the beautiful lilting way of the Caribbean.
“Conner gets here tomorrow,” I answer. “I don’t think Hania can stand us anymore.”
She smiles and returns to the previous conversation. “Oh my God Mike. You looked like shit.”
“Thanks,” I smile.
She laughs which makes me laugh.
“Tell me,” she says, “what has happened? You are different. You are like you used to be. Your smile is back.”
It makes me pause. I lost my smile? Someone stole it? I didn’t know. Of course you never do when you go through sad times.
A truck with the logo “Bati-pros” pulls into the grass beside the beach chalet across the sandy road. A guy pulls out a pressure washer.
“Ah,” Martina spits in disgust, “the Billionaire.”
“Oh yeah, I’ve seen him … Big black limo!”
“Little girl blond,” Martina shoots back describing the girlfriend of the week.
I laugh so hard I spew coffee on the table.
“I’m late for work,” she suddenly says standing up, “but I need to tell you something.”
I look at her. She has this way of being all serious as though she’s getting ready to tell me the secrets of the universe. She eclipses the beauty of one of the most beautiful places God has ever made.
“Your smile looks good. I am glad it is back.”
She hugs me and I think about Oliver yesterday. “You are different from last time,” he said. Now my friend Martina is agreeing with him.
We embrace again and I kiss her on both cheeks as the French do.
Then she walks inside my tiny little studio.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Cleaning your room,” she laughs.
And I just smile.
