A Coke Tale

It’s sad to be mad

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“Did you drink from my Coke?” asked the young man sitting next to me in the bar. His voice was steady, he wasn’t drunk, and there seemed to be no threat in it.

“I did not drink from your Coke,” I answered as evenly as I could. The bartender lifted an eyebrow almost imperceptibly and then strolled to the other end of the bar. His body language said that he had heard it all before.

“You can’t be sure with so many locos wandering about,” the man said. I thought I saw a brief flash and then a shadow in his eyes. “It must have been Sheyla. I know it was,” he said. His English and accent was almost perfect, but the name Sheila came out “Shayla,” as in Spanish. He easily read my cautious expression. “I’m sorry to bother you,” he spoke again quietly, swiveled his chair and stared out the open bar door. Boys carrying surfboards were returning from the beach, sand on their bare brown backs glittering in the sunlight.

I observed the young man in the back bar mirror. His curly black hair was in need of a trim yet he was neatly dressed in a designer polo that outlined a well-muscled body. His features were almost classical, more Roman than Puerto Rican. He pivoted in his chair, looked in the mirror confirming I was looking at him, and spoke again.