My Mariachi

By Chrissy

He piled food into his mouth and I realized he must be extremely hungry. We did not speak and only the sound of satisfied chewing could be heard. When he had finished, I brought him another plate and he attacked it with relish. It was good to see a man enjoy his food. We both drank more bottled water as we ate. It was nice and familiar and comfortable. I was beginning to relax with him, although I would never get used to confronting those devastating handsome eyes.

When the meal was over he rose from the table, going back to the sofa and lighting a cigarette on the way. Plunking down into the floral cushions he found the remote and flicked on my small TV. For a small moment in time I felt we were man and wife. He was my man and he had worked hard that day. I was his woman and I had cleaned the house and cooked a fine meal for my man. Humming happily, I threw the dishes into the sink and ran hot water on them, squirting some dishwashing liquid into the flowing water. I'd let them soak for a while. I crossed to the sofa and sat close to him. He was flicking ash into my prized African violet plant, but I did not mind. He was my husband and I loved him.

I smiled inwardly at my stupid little fantasy and then realized with a start that he was talking to me. "Your Spanish is very good," he was saying pleasantly. My eyes lingered on his lips, fascinated at the little spurts of white smoke that came out with every word. Then I looked into his amber eyes.

"I learned Spanish at school in Canada," I said brightly. "French is the other official language, but I always thought Spanish so beautiful."

"It is," he agreed, his voice deep. "It is." We fell silent again. The TV blared a noisy variety show.

His eyes moved around my small living room. "What's that over there?" he asked.

"That's the door leading into the hospital-clinic that's attached to this house. I told you, I'm a doctor. That door is inch thick steel for security. I've got all kinds of narcotics in there."

"We could get high, eh, senorita?" Again that amused glint in his eye.

My heart squeezed painfully. "You don't do that sort of thing, do you?" I returned anxiously.

He stiffened at my words, almost rising up from the sofa. "Christ, NO! I hate fucking drugs and I hate fucking drug dealers!" I started in surprise at his voice which was suddenly so loud and coarse with anger. "I aim to kill every last drug dealing fucker in Mexico." Viciously he crunched his cigarette into the soil around my African violet. "Drug dealers! FUCK! I will kill them all!"

I could think of nothing to say, so I turned my attention back to his wounded hand.

"I meant it when I said I could look at your hand for you," I said. "Maybe I can help."

"It's okay, it'll heal," he returned, his crazy anger diminishing. He allowed me to take the hand in mine.

"It might be infected," I insisted. "At least let me put a fresh dressing on the wound."

I had moved to undo the bloodied bandage and was pleased that he did not stop me. Slowly I unraveled the sticky red cloth layer by layer. It was stiff and saturated with dried blood.

At last I came to the wound and I gasped in horror. "Oh my God! What happened?" The whole centre of his palm was a bloody, pulpy mess.

"I was fucking shot, that's what happened!" he snapped, his golden eyes stormy with anger. I was becoming used to his sudden temper outbursts and continued my assessment of the lesion without hesitation.

He had a hole in the centre of his palm. The bullet had gone clean through. I moved his hand to inspect further and he flinched in pain.

"Listen," I said, my voice becoming soft and professional. "Scar tissue is already beginning to form. You will lose the use of this hand if you don't let me help you. I can stitch this up so that it heals properly. It won't take more than an hour. I can give you a local anesthetic. Honestly, you won't feel a thing."

He hesitated only for a moment before nodding. "Okay, senorita doctor. If it will make you happy." He winked playfully.

"It will make us both happy," I grinned back.

He had removed his mariachi jacket when he entered my house, but he now stood and - to my utter consternation - pulled the white cotton undershirt over his head so that his bronzed body was on full display.

"Ok, let's go, senorita doctor," he said briskly. "Stitch me up." I tried to drag my eyes away from his body. Christ Almighty! How was I ever going to concentrate with him flaunting those strong shoulders, that tanned, muscular chest right before my eyes?

I took the key and opened the heavy steel door. Walking into the clinic I flicked on the fluorescent lights and pulled a white coat over my shorts and T-shirt. All efficiency and proficient professionalism and not daring to look at him as he followed me, I pulled my long blond hair back into a ponytail.

He lay back on the table and I gently placed his left arm on the rest. With a quick movement I tucked a green sheet over his body so that I would not be distracted by that splendid chest, and I began my preparations. He lay back on the pillow, his eyes closed, fully relaxed. He did not flinch as I gave him several shots in his arm. I crossed the room to prepare my instruments and I then returned beside him to analyze the wound again and to consider my attempt at a repair. He had been lucky in some respects. The bullet had shattered bones, but the tendons were intact. Bone would heal and grow again. Sadly nerve endings do not regenerate. I remembered the guitar case he had lovingly rested against the wall as he entered my house. He was a mariachi. He would never again play that guitar. The fingers of his left hand would be slow to respond, the sensitivity gone. What cruel punishment to inflict upon a mariachi? Who would do such a thing? Maybe a drug dealer? Is that why he hated them so?

Once finished, I dressed the wound carefully. "Okay, you're all done." I smiled, my voice all efficient and doctor-like. He sat up and jumped down from the table, his movements light and graceful. "It will be numb for a while, but after that it's going to be painful. I'll give you some Tylenol." I went over to the medicine cabinet and unlocked the drawer. "I'll give you some antibiotics, too. But you must take them all. Every last pill."

He was nodding obediently and took the pills from me. We made our way back into my living room and I locked the door to the clinic. The dim table lamps of my home were a cozy contrast to the white glare of the fluorescent bulbs in the clinic.

It was now quite late -- past 11 p.m., and I was unsure how to act. I wanted him to stay, but I did not want to appear forward or anything. Nevertheless, he did not look like he was in a hurry to leave and I wondered if he even had anywhere to go to - he seemed to live the life of a wanderer. Still naked from the waist up he flopped back on the sofa and inspected the clean white dressing on his left hand.

"Don't get it wet" I ordered.

His beautiful amber eyes gazed at me through thick tangled lashes. "I cannot wash?" he asked seriously.

"Yes, of course. But keep the dressing away from the water." An idea popped into my head.

"Listen, if you want to take a shower now," I said, hoping my voice was not too eager, "I can wrap a plastic bag around your arm."

I was shivering inside at the thought of him naked in my shower. Could he hear the eager pounding of my heart, I wondered, as I waited for his reply. I watched as he pulled a cigarette from the package and struck a match. He did it all with a smooth expertise using just his right hand.

"I'll just smoke this, and then I will take you up on your offer, senorita," he said. "It's been a hot day and I have walked a long way since this morning."

I fussed under the kitchen counter looking for a plastic shopping bag to tie around his hand.

"It will be difficult to manage with just one hand," I said, tying the bag at his elbow. "I'll help you if you like." Did my voice seem too keen?

His gave a sly wink. "Why not?" he said, "You see naked men every day, eh? Senorita doctor? I will be safe in your care?"

"Oh, yes" I mumbled looking away, feeling the blush on my cheeks. He was definitely laughing at me.

"We have danced as lovers…" he was saying, a smile in his eyes. I knew he was teasing.

"Yes we have," I agreed with a grin.

He moved close and kissed me on the mouth, a gentle velvety kiss that brushed my lips and sent my senses spiraling. "I am invited to stay for the night?" he whispered against my cheek, his beautiful eyes on mine.

"Yes, yes," I agreed quickly. Closing my eyes, I leaned expectantly forward for more kisses. But he was dragging on the cigarette.

"If I stay here tonight, then we will make love?" I didn't know if it was a statement or a question.

"If you like," I whispered.

"Do YOU like?" he asked, almost seriously. I nodded.

"Because, if not - I will sleep here on this sofa."

"No, no," I cried too quickly and eagerly, "I want you to come into my bed."

I watched as my African violet suffered the humiliation of yet another cigarette butt being crushed into its roots. He stood and crossed to his guitar which was resting against the wall. He picked it up and carried it with him as he followed me into my bedroom. I realized the guitar meant a lot to him for he did not even allow it to remain in a separate room. He set the guitar down at the side of the bed.

Once again I felt a rush of self-consciousness. I wasn't too sure how to behave. Should I be brash and sexy? I was aching to have him make love to me, yet I didn't want to give the impression I was easy.

I sat on my bed somewhat awkwardly. "The bathroom's through there," I pointed to the tiny bathroom leading from my equally tiny bedroom.

"You will help me in the shower?" he asked, sitting on the bed and yanking off his dusty boots. My eyes went to the one crazy spur and I imagined the sensation of its spines being wheeled across my naked flesh. I shivered with inner excitement. Every part of me was tormented with longing for him.

Then breath caught in my throat because I realized he was unbuckling his belt. With the naturalness of any seasoned male stripper he dropped his pants to the floor and stepped from them. He was turned from me and my dazzled eyes went to his hard little ass which was as smooth and as bronzed as the rest of him. Christ Almighty! How did his buttocks become tanned? Did he run about naked?

He turned to look at me expectantly. "You will help me wash?" he said again, his voice deep, a smile in his eye.

"Oh yes, of course," I returned with a keen efficient briskness to my voice. I stood up from the bed.

"You will undress too, eh? Senorita doctor?" he smiled.

"Oh yes, of course," I blabbered, pulling my T-shirt over my head. With a nonchalant flair worthy of any female stripper I unhooked my bra and tossed it to the ground. I hoped the elastic had not left uncool red marks on my skin. Then I unzipped my shorts and pulled them and my panties down to my ankles. I gave them one delicate flick with my toe. I too stood as naked as a baby.

His eyes lingered on me and took a lazy tour down my body. I dared not look at him. Was he hard already? I wondered.

"You are very beautiful," he assured with a smile.

"So are you," I returned, my eyes riveted on his face. I could not have let them drop to his genitals for all the tea in China, although the temptation was overpowering.

He turned and went into the tiny bathroom with me trailing behind. "Excuse me," I stammered. "I have to get past." He turned and his eyes went down to my naked breasts. They came back up to meet mine and he smiled, lifting one eyebrow in a polite nod. It was such a small bathroom and, although he stepped back from my path, our naked skins brushed together and an electric current shot through me.

I moved past him and leaned over the bathtub to turn on the taps. The water splashed cold at first and then gradually warmed as I dangled my hand in its flow. I was powerfully aware of him standing right behind me as I bent over the tub, my ass in his face. I realized his breathing had become heavier, more ragged, and before I knew what was happening his good hand slid around my waist to clutch my hips. With a gasp he yanked me back onto him and his hard cock slid easily inside my wet cunt as he jammed my buttocks back into his groin.

A little "oh" of surprise fell from my lips. My hand left the flow of water and, still bending over, I clutched at the edge of the bathtub with both hands as he rocked me back and forth, his hold firm around me, his strong legs supporting me. It was primal and crude and decadent what we were doing. This was the way they propagated at the dawn of time, inside their caves, before mankind became civilized. The male standing behind, the female bending over before him. I could understand its appeal, for my knees became weak with heavy pleasure. Our gasps and cries echoed in the room along with the noisy gush of water falling from the tap into the bathtub, filling the already humid air with wet steam, making us sweaty and slippery and slick.

I had never enjoyed anything so much. I hung onto the edge of that bathtub with both hands, arms outstretched, surging back and forth wildly, my hair flying, my hips rocking. He stood powerful and straight behind me. He was in control, he guided my movements, moving back and forth his cock sliding up and down within me.

Several divine orgasms hit before he fell upon me with a moan, his buttocks jerking in the final throes of climax, his cock spurting, his body heaving on mine sending us both down to the bathmat, him on top, me beneath. We lay for a few moments savoring the aftermath of acute pleasure. Then he lifted my hair and kissed my shoulder.

"I am sorry, senorita," he whispered softly.

My face was squished into the bathmat. "Sorry? Sorry for what?" My voice was muffled. He was heavy on me, but I was enjoying every sensation.

He lifted himself up on his unwounded hand, "I didn't mean for that to happen. But you were naked and bending before me and…well…I'm sorry."

He moved up away from me and then I, too, sat up. "I've never enjoyed anything so much, please don't keep apologizing. It was wonderful." I reassured.

"I have a great respect for women," he insisted. "I would never force myself upon a women."

I wanted to say that I loved him; I wanted to say that I wanted it even more than he, but he continued to appear contrite. He leaped to his feet and helped me up with a courtly hand.

"I wanted it as much as you." I said, aware that hot come ran down my thighs as I stood up. "You didn't force yourself."

There was an awkward moment and then he threw back his handsome head and laughed. "Ahh I see. You are a liberated woman?"

"Well, yes. But not easy," I insisted. "I'm not easy. I don't want you to think I am easy. It's just that I like you so much. You seem really nice…"

"Me? Nice?!" He almost spat the word.

"Well, yes. I get the feeling you are really nice." My voice trailed off. I think we both wanted this conversation to end and he turned his attention to the steamy bathtub.

"We are wasting good Mexican water," he said and he pulled back my plastic shower curtain and stepped into the flow of cascading water. I stepped in behind him. "Keep your hand outside the curtain, away from the water," I instructed, all brisk business again. The doctor/patient relationship was back.

"I'll just wash your hair first," I said, as I took up my shampoo. I had to go on tiptoe for he was much taller than I. He had really nice hair. Naturally curly and naturally silky and he obviously enjoyed my massaging fingers on his head. We rinsed his hair and then I soaped my nylon scrunchy and lathered his back, he lifted his arms and I washed his armpits and then moved down to the delectable little bum waiting for me in all its dimpled glory. I soaped it and then leaned down to kiss its smooth hardness.

"Hey! Are you washing me clean or licking me clean?" I heard him laugh.

He could not turn around in the bath tub or his dressing would fall into the flow of water and get wet, so I had to scuttle around to the front of him. With a happy sigh I soaped his broad chest, delighting in the swirl of hairs around each nipple. His stomach was flat, his hips slim and then my soapy hand came to his cock. I'd never really had a chance to look at it. He was big and he was pretty. What a glorious cock springing from a bush of black curls! He was not fully aroused, yet still he was a good size. With a smile I soaped and washed him.

Finally I kneeled, my mouth level with his penis, and I washed his muscular legs. Then I quickly stood and soaped and washed myself and we both rinsed ourselves under the quickly cooling flow of water.

Lovingly I dried him with the towel and then rubbed myself dry. Still damp, our hair still wet and dripping we made our way back to the bedroom. I pulled back the sheet and climbed into my bed. The springs squeaked as he climbed in next to me. He yelped in sudden pain as he inadvertently rested his weight on his wounded hand.

"Do you want some Tylenol?" I asked quickly, "I guess the anesthetic is wearing off."

"No, no. I am used to pain. I have lived with pain," he said. He asked if I minded if he had another cigarette and so we sat together in companionable comfort, our backs resting against the headboard while he smoked. The white sheet covered his genitals, vividly contrasting against the tan of his skin. Still not sure of myself, I demurely pulled it up around my breasts.

My eyes went to his black guitar case resting next to the bed.

"Do you play professionally?" I asked. He grinned widely.

"No. I just have it to impress girls."

I laughed. "Hey, have you ever looked in a mirror? You don't need to carry a guitar to impress girls."

He smiled. "I used to play with a couple of other guys. My best friends. We called ourselves Los Hooligans."

"May I see your guitar?" I asked.

"Sure," He leaned down and opened the case and took out the guitar. It was obviously a cherished possession - its wood lovingly polished, its strings dutifully taunt and ready for his once quick and clever fingers. My heart grew sad. He would never play again.

He seemed to read my thoughts. "I will never play again, eh, senorita doctor?" he asked softly. I hesitated.

"Probably not," I said at last. There was no point in lying to him. "You can still play for your own personal pleasure, of course, but not professionally. Your fingers have lost their sensitivity. They will not move quickly enough on the strings. The thumb and index finger are intact, they did not suffer damage. But the other three fingers on your hand will never be the same."

He seemed to be thinking as he smoked his cigarette. "So, my thumb and finger are fine?" He stared reflectively at the white bandage covering his hand.

"Yes," I returned. I could feel the heat from his naked body next to mine. I was becoming hot and wet between my legs.

"I can pull a trigger with my left hand?" he was saying. I turned to him in surprise. "Pull a trigger? On a gun, you mean? Why would you want to shoot a gun?"

"Oh, not just one gun. Many guns." He viciously crunched his cigarette on a china coaster I kept on the night table. He probably thought it was an ashtray. "I aim to get many guns," he said.

"But why?"

"I have a score to settle." His lips were tight. His amber eyes glinted.

I fell silent. I did not want to discuss guns. I wanted him to fuck me again.

"The guitar is yours," he said suddenly shoving the guitar in front of me. "I have no need of it."

"Oh, no! Come on - this guitar obviously means a lot to you."

"I only need the case. The guitar is payment for my hand. It's yours."

"I don't want payment. Honestly. Keep your guitar."

But he was insistent. "I only need the guitar case, senorita doctor, for the guns. It will be a good disguise, don't you think?"

I hesitated, not knowing how to reply. But he leaned across and kissed me gently on the lips. It was so lovely and so unexpected that I sighed happily right into his mouth.

"What is your name?" he whispered, "I cannot keep calling you senorita doctor."

"Maisy," I returned shyly. I had been christened after a great aunt and had always loathed the name. It was plain and unpretentious and old fashioned.

But when he repeated it to himself, his beautiful Spanish accent lingering over the syllables, I found I suddenly liked it. In fact, I could listen to him saying my name over and over again for a lifetime.

I was about to ask him for his name when turned toward me, his mouth opening on mine and my question was lost in sudden breathy passion. Still kissing, we sunk down on the bed our arms and legs hugging, entwining us together tightly, our bodies twisting and throbbing with mounting excitement. A thrill of anticipation went through me. I wanted every part of him. I felt I had a box of luscious chocolates in my arms and I did not want to miss one single sweet taste. I wanted to suck and savour every delectable inch of his beautiful body. We kissed wildly, our mouths becoming almost bruised from the vehemence of our contact.

I found myself leaving his lips, my body squirming impatiently down his, biting and sucking everything in my path - until I finally arrived at my destination. His cock. His beautiful cock. Hard as iron, throbbing with lust, silken skin stretched to the limit topped by a pearl of white semen waiting for my eager tongue to lick away.

I took him into my mouth, my hands coming from their massaging of his body to find his balls. I squeezed and rolled them in my palm while my other hand cupped his throbbing ass and pulled him in tight. Above me I heard his sighs of pleasure and then a sudden loud yelp.

I took my mouth away and look up his body to his face. "What's wrong? Did I bite?"

He laughed. "No, No. I just leaned on my hand."

"Be careful," I instructed. "Don't rip the stitches." I couldn't wait to get back to sucking him.

But he was squirming around. "I want to taste you, too," he said. He yelped a few more times as his weight inadvertently came onto his wounded hand. But we only took seconds to position ourselves into the infamous 69 position and the sucking and licking began again with renewed fervor.

It was hard to concentrate. A few times I let my head loll, my mouth slacken, and I gave into the heady, pleasantly achy sensations between my legs. Oh My God! It was pure undiluted heaven. His satiny soft tongue knew every trick to drive me into ecstasy.

We were both almost at orgasm when he moved again, ignoring the pain of his hand, and he lay on his back, his strong hand pulling me to straddle him. "Get on top," he gasped.

Eagerly I climbed on him, leaning my body down his to kiss his mouth as he slid inside me. We waited a few seconds, savoring the sensation. Then I rolled my hips on him, his cock finding all the secret places within me. A series of moans left my lips. Together we became one -- caught up in the same rising passion and rhythm. His right hand came up to caress my breasts, and several times he raised himself up to lick my nipples with his hot tongue.

I thrust atop him, my head thrown back, my eyes closed, my face upturned in rapture. We were both heading toward eruption. The heat in our movements increased. Our moans filled the room. The bed rocked unsteadily on its hinges. And then we both exploded in unison. Powerful convulsions wrenched both of us into a world of carnal ecstasy.

We both lay gasping and panting for a long time, not even having enough breath to speak. I had never experienced such a forceful orgasm in my entire life. The aftermath was still with me, my limbs languid and heavy, my whole body weak with pleasure.

We were sweaty and sticky and bound together in a tight embrace as our bodies calmed and cooled. Many minutes passed before he made the first move. He kissed me lightly on my nose and then shifted up the bed and plumped a pillow behind his head.

I, too, moved to the head of the bed so that we were face to face. "I've never had such a strong orgasm in my life!" I murmured happily. "I feel like I've only been half alive until now."

He shifted to sit up. I looked at him anxiously. "You're not leaving are you?" I cried.

"Christ, no!" he returned with a grin. "I don't think I could make it as far as the door." I realized he was not leaving, but only wanted a cigarette and relaxed my body against his as he smoked.

"Do you have a good singing voice?" I asked after a while. There were so many questions I wanted to ask him, but I had the feeling he was an extremely private man.

He inhaled deeply. "I'm okay, I guess," he murmured. "I used to make a pretty good living. Not now, though."

"Well, you can still make a living singing. Someone else could accompany you on the guitar. "One of your Los Hooligans friends maybe."

"No, No, " he shook his head. "I don't have time any more for performing."

I frowned and then remembered. "Oh, because you have a score to settle?" I couldn't help the touch of sarcasm that sneaked into my voice. I felt he was merely perpetuating the violence that was so prevalent in this part of Mexico. You shoot me and so I must shoot you. It was a never-ending vicious cycle of gunfights and bloodshed and I had seen enough of its damaging effects on the children.

"Why don't you just go on with your life?" I asked airily. I wanted him to forget about foolish revenge, I wanted him to stay with me for the rest of my life. Men and their testosterone need for vengeance!! Sometimes I wish men would just grow up!

He was silent for a long while. I heard him crush out the cigarette.

"A few days ago my girlfriend was murdered," he said finally.

I gasped out loud. A cold, sick dread going through me. Part of it because of the news that he had a girlfriend. I had assumed him to be a loner with no attachments to anyone. But another part of me realized this was far more serious than two men playing 'silly beggars' with guns. Someone had been killed. His girlfriend.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, suddenly feeling humbled. "Is that how your hand was shot?"

But he had rolled over on the bed. "Let's talk about something else," he sighed.

"I'm sorry," I said again to his back. "I didn't mean to upset you."

He rolled back so that he was facing me again, a faint smile on his lips. He brushed a kiss across my lips.

"Let tonight be just for us," he breathed, his warm amber eyes smiling into mine. "No one else. There is only you and me."

I was more than happy to oblige. "I ask too many questions. It's the doctor in me. I'm sorry." I snuggled next to him. I loved the smell of his skin, I loved the warmth of his arms as they tightened around me, and I loved the soft raven curl that fell across my face as he leaned in to kiss me. He was right. The real world did not exist tonight. Only the two of us.

"We can sleep for a while," he whispered, "But I will want you again."

"And again, I hope," I smiled, happy that we were on good terms once more.

It's hard to explain the sexual passion we experienced that night. Again and again we made love. It was intense, almost excessive. He knew about women. He knew what made them delirious with rapture. He knew every nook and cranny of a woman's body. What to touch, where to lick, what to nibble. I did not want to think about how he became so experienced in the art of lovemaking. I did not want to think about him having a girlfriend. In my moments of sleep between passionate lovemaking I fantasized about having him in my life forever. I was completely and unconditionally in love with him. My mariachi! My beautiful mariachi!

I awoke suddenly the next morning. I thought I heard a door close. My bleary eyes went to the clock. It was 9 o' clock on Sunday morning. I could hear bells from a distant church pealing, calling its flock to worship.

My brain was befuddled and out of focus. My eyes remained closed, the lids stuck together by sleep. I rolled over onto my back, flinging an arm across my eyes. I sniffed. I could smell the lingering aroma of a cigarette. I frowned. Who could be smoking? Had someone broken into the clinic?

Suddenly it all came back to me. The mariachi. My mariachi. My beautiful, darling mariachi. I opened my eyes and turned on the pillow. He was gone! The door! The door closing behind him had awoken me!

Alarm shot through me. Christ! Where was he going? I couldn't lose him! I jumped from the tangled sheets of my bed and raced to the door. Not caring that I was totally naked, I flung the door open and looked out. My front door led directly onto a dusty street and several people stared in surprise as they passed by. Quickly I ran back into the room, screaming in frustration, and yanked a T-shirt over my head. I then rushed back out into the street.

Frantically I look up and down. And then I saw him. Way off in the distance. He had pulled his hair back into a ponytail. He was striding along, swinging the guitar case in his right hand. I called to him and dashed out into the street, not caring that small sharp stones pierced the bottom of my feet.

I thought he had heard me because he stopped. But a vehicle had pulled up beside him. He was hitching a ride from someone in a rusty red pickup. I continued running toward him as he tossed the guitar case into the back of the truck and jumped in. I stopped dead, out of breath, my heart racing at the sudden activity so soon after waking. I waved and shouted, but the truck was speeding away, its wake of dust filling my open mouth making me cough. I stood there for many minutes, total desolation and disbelief overwhelming me.

How could he do it? How could he leave without a word? Surely we had shared something special.

Heartbroken I staggered back to the house and slammed the door. Damn him! Goddamn him! The least he could do was say goodbye. Anger and frustration and complete helpless despair overwhelmed me. I fell to the floor and sobbed my heart out.

When I finally climbed to my feet and staggered into the bedroom I saw his guitar resting against the wall. He had taken one of my yellow post-it notes and written the words "Thank You" in English and placed it upon the guitar.

I broke into a sudden smile. I clutched the guitar to me and hugged it as if he were the mariachi himself.

I expected him to return. I was positive that he would. The stitches inside his wound would dissolve into his body, but those sutures on the palm and the back of his hand would need to be removed, if not the skin would grow over them and become infected. Surely he would come back. Every day I expected to see him in the crowded waiting room, that faint, amused smile in his warm amber eyes.

But he never came back.

He was constantly in my thoughts. I worried about him continually. Was he okay? Was he dead? Who had killed his girlfriend? Drug dealers? Was he up against armed drug dealers?

Weeks turned into months and I learned I was pregnant with his child. Tests revealed it would be a boy and the due date was August 10th.

My tenure in Mexico finally up, I sat on the plane as it headed toward Toronto. I was now 8 months pregnant and quite a size. It had been difficult to write to my parents. How could I explain that their celebrated doctor daughter had become pregnant from a one night stand with a man whose name she did not even know? How could I explain that I had loved this man more than any woman could ever love a man?

A little thrill of excitement ran through me every time the baby moved. This child would learn to play his father's guitar, which was traveling on the seat next to me. I had paid for a ticket for the guitar. I smiled again. I would teach my son Spanish. He would learn about his Mexican culture. Maybe I would return to Mexico to live.

A name for my son. My mind was whirling with names. It had to be special. It must exemplify my beautiful mariachi.

My eye caught a headline as the man in the seat across the aisle opened his newspaper to the Entertainment Section. Written in great big bold black letters were the words -

"Antonio Banderas - Double Oscar Success!"

"Antonio Banderas accepts Oscar for Best Male Actor and Best Director" - the story went on.

Antonio? I liked it. It fitted. It suited my mariachi for he had looked something like the Spanish actor. I settled back on the seat. I had a name for my son.

The baby flipped its approval by performing a somersault in my stomach. I grinned and clutched myself in sheer joy. Happiness washed over me.

"Air tickets are not cheap. That must be a special guitar," the passing flight attendant smiled down at the guitar on the seat next to me.

"It is," I returned, my eyes shining, "And it belongs to a very special man. My baby's father."

She smiled. "Lucky you! A special guitar, a special man and a special baby on the way. Well, you had better fasten your seatbelt so that you all arrive safely. Here, I'll help you"

I smiled. I was lucky. Luckier than most. For I had known an unforgettable man. Many might say that he was a cad - loving me and then leaving me like he did. But he had promised me nothing, yet he had given me the most wonderful gift. A night of extraordinary passion and a son to cherish forever.

I looked down as the CN Tower came into view. We were about to land.