"Ay no jodas." Rick is stirring his drink and giving me his yeah-right face when his eyes turn into golf balls again, "Two-o'clock quick."

"Yours or mine?"

"Mine."

I spin on my heels, the girl's looking right at me. I smile at Rick, "Snagged."

"She smiled. Why'd you swear you weren't coming back here? Se te pego algun chicle? Another Fatal Attraction?"

"I'm just tired of . . ." Rick's cellphone interrupts me. The music's too loud for him to take his call so he goes outside. I was about to tell him that I'm sick of this scene. That I've never found anything worthwhile here. It's the same thing week in, week out. People parading their wares. It's a little sad really.

Rick comes back, takes a swig of the Absolut he left me guarding. "So, what were we talking about? You were saying something."

"I was trying to tell you that this shit's getting old, you know?"

"You're getting old."

"Seriously. What do we get from all of this, a piece of ass? Is that what we come here for every week?"

"What's wrong with you, man?" Rick nudges me and points to the door. "That's what we come here for every week."

A girl in a white dress comes in. She looks a little lost. Timid. Definitely doesn't belong here. I'm thinking she's going to get devoured. If I were into it I?d do my knight-in-shining-armor routine and rescue the fair maiden. But not today. I get close to Rick?s ear: "Besides, man, I spend a lot of money here." Not a lie but not the real reason.

"Tell me about it. I met this chick here a couple of weeks ago, ended up spending almost four beans." He raises his glass at me in question.

I nod, "Black con agua."

Rick and I have been doing this for years. Friday Happy Hour at The-In-Place-To-Be-This-Week. We have a pretty good time usually. We do OK with the ladies. He goes his way, I go mine. Sometimes we meet up, two or three A.M., table for four at La Carreta. We usually let the girls introduce themselves, it's better to be rude and stay quiet if you don't recall their names.

Rick comes back with two fresh drinks, taps me on the arm with his elbow and hands me my Black.

"Listen, don't even turn around," I tell him. "They're checking you out."

"Esta buena? Is she hot?"

"Let's just say she doesn't miss many meals. Tiene buen apetito. A really good appetite." Rick winces.

"I bet she's got a plate in front of her," he says. It's true, happy hour cheese.

There's a moment of silence between Rick and I. Radar time. Our opportunity to scan the place, make eye contact with some girl we'll forget about sooner or later. I don't. I really don't want to be here. But then, where else is there to go? If I stayed home I?d be climbing walls. I used to like this scene, but lately it seems that everywhere I go it's the same shit. Same faces, different places. It dulls.

Guys always walk in, make their way to the bar trolling with self-importance as bait, order a drink, make small talk and wait for a bite. The conversations go from business to women to football to women to fishing to women to whatever to women. It's always the same. Anything that's worth saying is said before walking in. Women do the same, I presume.

"What ever happened to that girl you met at South Beach that night? . . . What was her name?"

"Evelyn?"

"Yeah, Evelyn. What happened with her? Co񯦬t;, bro. That was incredible."

"High maintenance," I tell him, "champagne taste was too much for my Budweiser wallet." He tells me I should have gotten a 'par-taine', says she was worth getting a second job for. I ask myself how far I'm actually willing to go for a nice piece. I've traveled a lot. It's time for me to make my way back home. I want to feel the way you feel after getting home from vacation. Relaxed. Spent. Ready for the routine again.

But this is routine Miami. I go from club-of-the-week to club-of-the-week, bouncing from girl to girl like one of those little rubber balls you'd buy for a quarter from a machine at the supermarket when you were a kid. My uncle calls me the Love Tourist, says I've been to Colombia on Thursday, Ecuador on Friday and spent Saturday in Argentina without ever leaving the city. And it's true. They're all wonderful girls, too. Attractive. Sexy. Passionate. But I never wanted to leave Cuba. It's where I've always wanted to be. The problem is most of these Miami Cuban girls have a self-imposed bloqueo. A social embargo.

"Oye, broder, look at what you're missing." Rick points out a trio wiggling by the steps to the dancefloor.

"Cuidado," I say. "Spandex causes road rash."

He gives them the cool eye while drinking from his glass with a chic pinky. "What I need now," he says, "is some Chirino. . .Lo que esta pa' ti; . . ." He tries to do a little salsa step but it's hard to keep Chirino's beat when you're up to your ears in merengue.

"Where do you think they're from?"

"Who cares, bro." He points at them again with his eyebrows, "Look at those pipes."

He's right, they're nice but I'm out of alcohol. I ask Rick if he wants another one.

"Con cranberri esta vez."

I go back to David who's super busy but sees me with dollar sign irises. He holds up two fingers, I nod, "Make the Absolut with cranberry this time." By now David's always getting barraged with orders so I light a cigarette and reach behind a white dress for an ashtray from the bar. My forearm topples the girl's fluted drink. She steps back, looks for yellow on her dress. There's none.

"I'm sorry,? I say. ?Let me get you a new one." She looks up. It's the timid fair maiden.

She says nothing and looks pissed. Cubana, I think, it's in the eyes. "You should be more careful," she says. Attitude. Definitely Cuban.

I tell her I'm not having a good day. David puts my drinks on the bar and wipes up the one I spilled with his trusty towel. I catch his eye and tilt my head towards the girl. Mimosa? he asks me. I nod.

I turn back to the girl, "Dave's getting you another one. I'm really sorry I did that." She apologizes for giving me the attitude. It's a new dress. Asks me if I'm leaving. I answer by showing her both drinks.

"You're not even going to toast?" She smiles. "It's the least you can do."

I put my Black down and tell her I'll be right back. "My friend gets ugly without his Absolut." She blinks approval at me.

Rick is practically drooling over the Spandex and I'm wondering if this girl I just met is going to be another one of those bloqueo Cuban girls that are more concerned with status than with meaning. Another one of my magnets. The kind that ask for the time to get a 'Rolex-check.' She's pretty. Well dressed. Primped hands. Probably is.

I hand Rick his drink, give him the signal. He OK's. "No te pierdas." He tells me he might be needing some help soon. Don't get lost.

On my way back to la Cubanita I hope she doesn't ask me what I drive. I'll just act real smug, say Pardon me?, then give her a little smirk and say a car. I should just leave now, go back over to Rick and take off to Puerto Rico or Santo Domingo or wherever it is that he's going tonight with the Spandex cruise directors. You can't get disappointed if you know what you're getting.

When I come back to the fair maiden she hands me my drink, raises her own, smiles, says "To better days." I acknowledge and wait for the usual So what do you do?

"I'm Sandra," she poses her hand, infects me with her smile. I smile back and tell her my name. Her handshake is silk.

"I hate this place," she says. "The last time I came I swore I'd never come back."

"So why are you here then?"

"It's my friend's last day at work. We're meeting here for a couple of drinks." She looks around, "I'm the first one here, I guess. I really hate this place. Mucha chusmeria. . Too many macho low lifes."

I tell her I was just telling my friend the same thing. "I'm not even sure why I'm here now." I'm starting to like this girl. Not just because I think she's Cuban and she's attractive but because she says she hates this place and I can tell she's uncomfortable here. Maybe this won?t be routine.

"It's always full of these leeches, you know? And plasticas. I'm not used to this kind of place. I wanted to go somewhere else. Somewhere quiet. The kind of place that I could just throw on a pair of jeans and go to without worrying about sharks. I feel like a piece of meat here."

Oh-oh. Where did this girl come from? She's definitely no piece of meat. "I only came because of my hormonal friend over there." I point to Rick who by now is laying it on thick.

"He looks like he's enjoying himself. Where are you from? Are you Cuban?"

"Yes," I say in perfect English. "How'd you know? Are you?"

"Ches, ain cubana." She taunts.

"Born here?"

"La Habana. And you?"

"Santiago."

"Oriente. The land of martyrs," she says, "y de los calientes."

Land of the hot blooded? Coño. I think I could fall for this one. Witty. Friendly. Down-to-earth. Sharp. Not a little Cuban girl but a Cuban woman. For some reason I picture her hanging clothes en una tendedera, with her hair in a ponytail and a clothespin in her mouth. Simple, unassuming beauty.

She sips from her Mimosa and comes closer to me, pinches a piece of string off my suit and pats the wrinkled shoulder down. I look at her hand then lock on to her eyes. She smiles, fingers my left arm down to my hand, lifts it by my pinky and says, "Do you have the time?"