The Hotel Cadiz
WE WERE IN the Cuernavaca station, waiting for another bus, going on another date that we called an “excursion,” as if renaming it could turn it into something else, something permissible. As if I didn’t have a husband at home.
David and I had met at a Spanish language school, though we weren’t in the same class. He was fluent, a Spanish teacher taking classes toward his credential. I was trying to learn enough Spanish to fulfill the language requirement for my doctoral work. We had met our first weekend in Mexico on one of the program’s cultural excursions, a trip to Teotihuacan, the ancient Mayan city. Strolling along the Avenue of the Dead, David had made me laugh harder than I had in months.
Now, we were headed to the Grutas de Cacahuamilpa, a large network of underground caves. I watched the curve of David’s face. He wiped his forehead and said, “I sweat a lot. Sorry.”
“Sweating is good for you,” I said, and David smiled.
We sat on wooden benches among other travelers and sipped bottled water. Women with baskets full of fruit and bread weaved through the crowds. Taxi drivers leaned against old cars, waiting for fares. Dogs sniffed the streets for food, noses buried in garbage. A neon sign flashed red and blue.
I moved my hand from my lap and
