The Councilwoman...

"Smart and coy, a little crazy
The kinda face that starts a fight
Let me tell you 'bout the girl I had last night
Piercin' eyes, like a raven
You seemed to share my secret sin
We were high before the night
Started kickin' in..."
- Survivor, High On You

By DUARDO PAZ-MARTINEZ
The Paz Files

LA FERIA, Texas - She left her house just before sundown, aboard that funky American car known to all in the community, and headed for a bar everyone in town knew as a reliable hangout for the drinking press, the ever-angling politicians and the crazy swingers. Somewhere in her pocketbook, Candy Robles had a phone number she'd need by the end of the evening. She hadn't seen him in days and the absence was making her grouchy.

Earlier in the day, Candy, in her role as city councilwoman, had taken care of a few duties, read her mail and made a few phone calls to do with city business. That new, million-dollar playhouse she wanted for the city's children was front-center on her mind, but so was seeing that man, the one that had her juices in a swirl. She'd met him at a chamber of commerce gathering a few weeks earlier, exchanged phone numbers and then waited three long days before he'd called. The wait, she now told herself, had been unbearable. Something about him, about his muscled body, took her emotions in a blender, mixed them all up and gave her something approximating an orgasm. Candy Robles was sure that treat was in her future.

Tonight, she'd been told he would be at the bar. She'd bathed slowly, lathering her body from head to toe in expensive gel she'd bought at Bed, Bath & Beyond, the one store that stocked that body gel from France she loved. It smelled like caramel, and she knew caramel drove local men crazy. After sitting in the tub for almost a half-hour, she'd risen to towel-off, working the soft, red towel across her pear-sized breasts and then between her legs, working it up and down her thick patch of pubic hair. Another half-hour with the makeup and she'd been ready. Still nude, she walked into her closet and grabbed at the short, black dress that always drew stares. Candy, tallish, statuesque, the proverbial lovely Hispanic woman, liked that, liked being eyeballed. She was almost 30, still single and no kids.

This guy, she told herself on the drive to the bar, is the guy for me.

At every traffic stop, Candy looked in the rear-view mirror, at her face, pouting in a way she thought was sexy. She pursed her lips and worked on that come-on she'd used since high school. She was on the make and that's all there was to it. City business could wait, as could that children's playhouse. This was about the moment, about seeing and being with a real man, a newcomer to town, a man she thought would look good next to her. Candy moved into the turn lane and angled into the bar's parking lot. Happy Hour. Parking lot filled. She angled in between a BMW sedan and a Hummer. The players are all here, she thought, correctly. Her man drove a Datsun S2000, a little two-seater. When she scanned the parking lot, she did not see it. Perhaps he was late, or on his way.

Inside the joint, she quickly spotted Ramon Fosforo, a gregarious colleague on the city council. He wore his usual leisure look, a pair of tan slacks and his ubiquitous Nehru jacket. He waved her over and then introduced her to a man who bore a striking resemblance to a guy she'd met at a 14th Street cantina in nearby Brownsville. He smiled and extended his hand while intrroducing himself. Candy felt him holding her hand longer than customary, like he was wanting to say more, moving his index finger slowly around the palm of her hand. She smiled in return and then looked around. No sign of Mr. Right.

The lanky Ramon Fosforo excused himself, saying he'd spotted someone he knew across the bar. Candy nodded and next heard Mr. Hand Shake ask if she wanted a drink. "Cuba Libre," she told him, out of habit. It was her drink of choice. Antsy, she kept looking for her handsome stranger.

"Here you go," she heard a minute later, quickly taking the cocktail glass.

Long minutes of idle chit-chat passed, Candy noting a few things about herself while the guy did the same. She hadn't asked him his name. It didn't matter. She didn't care. Her mind was on the man she'd come to see, only he wasn't in sight. The excitement she'd felt driving-over faded, even as the music grew louder and the laughter enveloped the bar. Bastard, she thought, framing a portrait of a woman slapping a man. Hot was not the word. She was livid, feeling dumped.

" 'Nother drink?" she heard next.

"Sure," was the only reponse she could offer. She watched him move toward the bar and thought that perhaps she'd dismissed him too quickly. High shoulders, long legs, big hands and shoes, expensive shoes. The bar was shaking, people dancing and the live music pushing the false ceiling to the roof. Something had to happen. Too much "getting ready" for a wild evening couldn't possible equal going home alone.

In the morning, she rolled over in bed to see the face of the guy who'd bought her drinks at the bar. He was asleep. Candy slid toward her pillow and raised her back just enough to sit-up. She ran a hand through her longish hair and wondered. She wondered what had happened in the sack, what she'd done and had done. Her unknown lover's face offered no clue. He was sleeping like a baby, long hair tussled and wild. She ran her hand below, to her crotch, and fingered herself. Checking. Then she lifted her hand to her nose and smelled the ends of her fingers. Nothing discernible, she told herself, nothing manly, nothing pasty. Not that it would have mattered; she remembered nothing from the previous night.

At the City Council meeting later that day, Candy Robles voted in favor of funding the children's playhouse...

- 30 -

[EDITOR'S NOTE:..This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any living person is strictly coincidental...]