He was dark and Cuban and everything she loved. He taught her to dance, to feel, to be exactly who she wanted to be in that moment. She, in the confines of his arms, had become what she had never dreamed to be. She soared and plummeted, her wings grazing the tips of the sun and the crisp waves of the clear ocean.
He was dark and Cuban and everything she loved. She had to leave him but that stopped nothing. She tried to write. She tried to call. Every now and then she would get a postcard stamped with brightly colored pictures of places she remembered. And, on a very rare occasion, a letter would reach her, written in his beautiful, scrawled handwriting. The letter was quick, hastened off to her, yet containing more love than she would have ever imagined a letter containing. And yet her heart ached for him, and she knew he was in danger, trying to support his family in the midst of turmoil. And every night as she went to bed, her heart yearned to be next to him on the warm sand, to be back in his arms swaying rhythmically to the mysteries of a Latin beat.
He was dark and Cuban and everything she loved. And in his suit, his dark hair lightly brushing the collar of his suit, his tie crooked, he looked to be, in her eyes, more beautiful than she ever would have though possible. She kissed his lips, grazed her hand lightly over his cheek, and then walked from his coffin without speaking. He was dark and Cuban and everything she loved. And he was gone.