“Is it that obvious?” Leo mumbled, wiping salsa from his chin.
He felt a light tap on his shoulder.
Just then, the DJ—a bored-looking lesbian with a killer undercut—put on a slow, deep house track. The dance floor remained empty.
They didn’t merge into one mass. They danced in clusters, in pairs, in solitary swirls. But they shared the same space, the same beat, the same rain-streaked night.
Later, as Leo walked home, his phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: “The table is always open. Next time, you bring the tacos. – Mama Reyes.”
“First time?”