It was hot in this tropical, humid San Francisco look-alike city — as hot as it hot could be. My anticipation for could or not happen again made the ordeal of walking up and down its hilly streets almost bearable. Trees, buildings, parks and people were wrapped in a dense humidity, steaming under a scorching sun. You and I were far from home, away from critical eyes, from friends and relatives. Yet, a mythical miracle began to unfold in our twilight-zone age of 18. In this unfamiliar city, a magical home was about to be created for just one fleeting day.

I looked at you, again and again. I could not believe that you would come with me in this trip. Just one week ago, you shouted in my face, "I never want to see you again! Forget about me! Leave me alone!"

Yet, here we were! — walking up and down all over this quaint and beautiful town, looking for a place to stay after a five-hour extenuating trip, on an old crackling train, which felt like falling apart at every curve through the Southeastern Mountains of Cuba.

We were among the lucky. We got seats. Most did not and stood up all the way to Santiago. Every single wagon was filled to the rim with restless passengers, especially soldiers from the military service — poor sad sacks who spent most of the their weekend pass on the round trip from and back their military unit.

As in a magic land, under the evil spell of a deranged warlock, all through Cuba everything became scarce, and so did the vacancies in the few hotels left — all of them now State property. After our arrival in Santiago, we went on a room-shopping spree. When we found one vacancy in one hotel, we were told we had to share our room with seven more guests.

"No way!" you said. "Keep looking. We'll find something more private. You will see."

I smiled. I thought you would have felt more protected, sharing our room with others; but you pleasantly surprised me — you wanted privacy. If what you told me before were true, you would have been happy to avoid us being together alone in the same room.

We kept looking. Around three o'clock, you finally got your wish. And so did I. We found one room for two in an old pension, still privately owned.

Your pupils dilated widely and made mine did the same when you looked at me, as it happened for the first time in our lives once some time ago.

The room was immaculately clean, beautifully tiled, and breezy if we kept the tall Venetian-blinded windows open. It had two beds with clean-smelling sheets and we had our own private bathroom — a pleasant combination of neatness and old fashion charm, now being crushed by the military boots of a phony revolution erroneously billed romantic by thousands.

We both smelled of the strong herbal scent one gets while traveling the Cuban countryside. A scent that stuck on our skins for hours. Only a good long shower could get rid of it.

The floor tiles in the room were mirror-polished and looking at them I could clearly see your almost chubby figure reflected on them as one by one you dropped your clothes on the floor. You stood there for one moment — stark naked — and when you walked in the bathroom, something powerful stirred a passionate yet delicious confusion in me.

I took all my clothes off but for my jockey shorts and lay on my back on the clean-smelling sheets of the small bed, the one next to the window, waiting for you to finish and take my turn under the shower. It was balmy in that cozy breezy room, and the effect on my body was curious.

Every drop of sweat sliding through my chest, after stopping and hanging on some skin crevice was cooled by the breeze drafting through the windowpane. In the process, my body warmed up and cooled down, warmed up and cooled down — a most pleasurable sensation.

Soon, I felt hot and anxious, willing yet not ready. But were you? Was I to believe your previous total rejection or your change of heart to accompany me here? Was it your insistence to look for a private room a sign that you were willing to repeat that beautiful night in your room, scared to be discovered by your family, when passion was so strong and overwhelming that...

When you came out of the shower, you went to the side of my bed and told me a welcome, unexpected phrase. I was sure you would not take the first step.

But, no! You stood there pointing at me — and not with your finger — and telling me you would like to climax together as we did that first time, previous to a swift love making in your room that extreme passion cut so short.

My heart began to pound and I slowly began to dispose of my short and you lay next to me. You mirrored my body, for our bodies were so much alike that touching you was like touching myself. I felt a sweet, yet burning sensation all over me. Our most sensitive parts finally touched. And again, another explosion of passion ended in unison.

One hour later, we went to call on some friends in a typical middle-class Santiago neighborhood. It was a pleasant reminiscence of pre- and post- independence mores in Santiago and other Cuban cities.

Young upscale people enjoyed getting together for quality time, discussing philosophy or in this case singing (who cared if one of us was singing out of key) while our hostess played the piano beautifully. Her two brothers, 18 and 19 (she was only 16), completed the number of the five of us having one of the most beautiful afternoons I had ever spent in my life.

Dinner was our next step — we chose La Pirámide, a pizza place in the shape of real pyramid with a great assortment and a wonderful ambiance.

The little devil of a powerful physical attraction was still part of you and happily pulling cords and flipping switches in the most intricate labyrinths of your mind.

After dinner, we sat on a bench in the colonial park of the city, facing City Hall. We started to talk. It was the first time since we left that we had a real conversation. I noticed your voice was getting harsh and I wondered what the reason was for such transformation.

Until that afternoon, I thought that it was all over between us. But I was wrong. You were obviously looking forward to the night before us. As time passed, your voice turned harsher and harsher, until I couldn't make up what you were saying. The story of your adventure in Sierra Maestra doing "voluntary" work while in high school turned vague while our eyes sparkled. All that mattered now was that the time to go to our room was getting closer, and the anticipation of what was about to happen was making you nervous.

“I am tired. Why don't we go home?”

Home? — Our fleeting home soon to be lost in the immensity of time. The only one we had or will have from then on. We were going home, a home for one night and one night alone.

After opening the door we got in. Nothing else was needed to be said, we hugged and I fell on top of you on your bed, the one close to the door. How many days before that moment I dreamed of holding you in my arms, to hold you so tight! That night was very special and it always will because we did it in our home!

Years later, that involving sensation is being replayed in my mind with incredible accuracy. I can feel the smell, your smell. I can recall the nervous movement of your hands all over me. I can feel again and again your dirty blond hair in my hand, the heat of your beautiful ears, your soft chest and warm belly and hot below, your gorgeous thighs interwoven with mine.

Then I can smile and be happy because when I wake up in the present, I look forward to replaying that memory, a permanent part of me in the form of a recurrent flashback.