face to face

[benicio otero]

QUE PASE LO QUE TENGA QUE PASAR Far flung from his favorite local haunts in Harlem and Washington Heights, Benicio found himself wandering in East Village on a Thursday night. These romps around the city—exploring neighborhoods, meeting new people, trying different restaurants and vendors—are his favorite part of living here, no one day like another. Encouraged by a gathering crowd and the familiar reverberation of reggaetón, he ducked into the first place to catch his eye: a Latin spot closing its kitchen soon, preparing to turn over into a makeshift nightclub. Shouldering his way through the entrance bottleneck, he was quick to fetch a drink before scouting out the place from several angles, appraising the quality of the sound system. Eagerly he took in the vibrant colors, string lights sparkling over murals on the wall, the sound of glass and hive chatter enveloping him, the blur of fellow patrons sheltering for the night. The clock ticked down, the drink in his hand becoming lighter as he chatted up the DJ, browsing the set queue, thrilled to recognize the songs—some his own, though he did not say and the DJ did not recognize him. Granted, he was still wearing sunglasses, and the brim of his hat afforded him some anonymity. For his standards, Benicio was dressed down, too; colorful coat checked, a dark sweater layered over a dark shirt, his ears and hands shimmering with jewelry. Rarely was he recognized or bothered out in public, not in a place like this where he was merely another blip in the crowd. Making his way back to the bar, he tucked his glasses away and ruffled the heap of shiny black curls beneath his hat, feeling the heat collect in the air as more bodies moved, twisted, pumped. The music was scaling up in volume and speed, a new hour upon them that would surely explode in energy. This was part of what he loved about his community, this music. His blood pulsed with anticipation of a good night when he caught a face in the mirror on the wall opposite to him, as if placed there only to highlight this girl from the crowd. She is hauntingly beautiful, something about her not quite belonging but standing out in a way so distracting he doesn’t think he could survive the night without knowing her. Her features were almost severe in their flatness, maybe inconvenienced or impatient—he couldn’t tell, her body language obscured in his limited view. Allowing no extra thought or inkling of a plan, he casually snaked his way toward her side of the bar, sidling imperceptibly next to her, competing with other shoulders and greedy drink orders. His elbow grazes hers, turning with an apologetic gesture. Up close she is even more spectacular, his curiosities igniting under her gaze—what did her voice sound like, what was it like to witness a smile? He leaned against the bar, pushing forward his emptied glass, gesturing toward hers. “Qué estás bebiendo y cómo puedo unirme a ti en eso?” he asked in Spanish, flowing effortlessly from his lips as he tried not to stare at hers.

[rosie de la cruz]

BACK IN LOVE WITH THE MOONLIGHT This wasn't part of the plan. A slight frown darkens Rosie's features, checking the time on her phone for what felt like the fifth minute in a row. Bass pulses suddenly into the restaurant, the flicker of her annoyance growing as tables slowly disappeared to make room for a new crush of strangers. She'd been invited here on good graces, rehashing her current life and mistakes to friends from her pilates classes - but now they'd disappeared as soon as the bill had been paid, and she realized with horror she'd been tricked into staying out as well. Her first thought was to leave immediately, black shearling jacket already halfway up her shoulders before Dree caught her wrist. "Pleasee stay, you never do! You don't even work tomorrow!" The pouting, pleading expression on her friend's face is enough to make her waver, eyes flicking around the space now suddenly teeming with upbeat, frenetic energy. She also had a point - a rare PTO day for absolutely no reason was pasted across her active calendar, excited to settle into a day with very little to do but order in, figure out her trip home for the holidays, and sleep until she felt like it. "Fine," Rosie eventually acquiesces, unable to hide the brightening shift of her smile as her friend dragged her to their group with a cheer. She's wrapped up in their excitement and a chilled tequila shot, quieting the forever running list in her mind and throwing caution to the wind as the familiar sound of a DJ scratch sent the crowds spinning onto the floor. That's where her limit had remained. Stationed casually at the bar, an arm's length away from her friends on the dance floor and a million miles away from any kind of comfort. Just feeling the gentle hum of her ebbing sobriety, turning back to request another tequila soda amidst the pitching masses. The group had steadily surged until she swore the place was at max capacity, barely blinking twice as a glass slid onto the wood in front of her until a quick hand follows suit, gestures reflecting off the flashing lights and the rings that littered his fingers. Rosie's gaze flicks from the bartender to the man now hovering over his shoulder, eyes widening both at the dark depths of his irises and the fact that she had absolutely no idea what he was saying. "Sorry," she breathes, knowing confusion and curiosity has to read all over her face. "I don't...I'm not sure what you said."

[benicio otero]

QUE PASE LO QUE TENGA QUE PASAR There is never a shortage of beauty here. These neighborhoods tended to crawl with models and foreign visitors, people of all different shapes, accents, and fashions, providing a feast for the senses. Even with winter temperatures threatening outside the doors, frigid air ghosting in behind latecomers, the buzz continued to pulse throughout the bar, its floors gradually transforming into a dance floor. It was like watching a creature shift and come to life, cleared space instantly flooding with bodies, the BPM kicking up, possessing his own fingertips to drum across the bar. He knew the song well, was friends with the singer himself, and tried to remember the set list, to predict the crowd and play into the ebbs and flows of energy. With bated breath he watches her features shift, the unnerving coin flip that is approaching strangers at the bar. Of course, he knew there was a good chance of encountering annoyance, or to simply be brushed off—perhaps she was separated from her boyfriend or on her way out, not interested in casual conversation. With a face like that, Benicio was surprised she hadn’t drawn a crowd of her own, begging for her attention, her phone number, her name. It felt a privilege simply glimpsing her up close and hearing the curious lilt in her voice, the softness of which was surprising, offering a startling contrast to the sharp edges of her makeup. “Ah, I’m sorry,” he was quick to realize, trying to brush off his surprise, a tinge of sheepishness in the laugh that accompanied his apology. He has the type of accent that sticks to the vowels, stubborn with deep roots; a remnant of learning one language first, long ago, before picking up another, out of necessity or otherwise. “I came to ask you what you were drinking,” he explained, mostly true. The lopsided grin could be heard in his voice, dark eyes darting to her drink and back to her. The music seemed to dim in his ears, focusing on her. “I finished mine and wanted to try something else,” he said, although now he supposed he owed her a drink for his silly assumption.

[rosie de la cruz]

BACK IN LOVE WITH THE MOONLIGHT If there was one thing Rosie was good at, it was predictions. Well versed in the art of stock market trends and oscillating excel charts that bled into her dreams every so often, she ran percentages and probabilities in her head so consistently it almost felt second nature, even in scenarios of her element. Tonight, for example, she'd already guessed who Dree would go for on the dance floor, if Lila'd had too much to drink, if Sylvie's hair would end up in a bun in twenty minutes or twelve. Statistics were her strong suit, and as bleak as it was to admit it, she knew the probabilities of getting approached were always high. Sometimes, she wondered why. Objectively she knew she was beautiful, but there had to be something more that gave everyone the courage to buoy any nerves and say something to her. Finance bros were brash, venture capitalists were sly...this had been surprising, a language long spoken by her mother but something she never picked up as she buried herself in school textbooks and the gentle sweep of childhood competitiveness. The accented vowels thrown rapidly in his backpedal. "Tequila soda - I'm afraid it's kind of a boring choice," she eventually offers, looking down at the highball glass now swimming with ice. She didn't really remember finishing it, words warm on her tongue as she sets it down next to his. Rosie shifts to look over her shoulder, catching her friend's eye as she spun in the arms of a curious stranger. "Talk to him!!" Lila over-exaggerates, Rosie reading her lips and rolling her eyes before she turns back around to signal to the bartender. Delicate flingers flash a peace sign, and two more drinks appear quickly in her wake. "Rosie," she greets, clinking their glasses together before downing a long sip. It's stronger than anticipated, wincing under the burn of tequila before her eyes flit back to his. "Are you from around here?"

[benicio otero]

QUE PASE LO QUE TENGA QUE PASAR Of all the women in the bar to be drawn to, it had to be her. In a place like this he could take a step backwards and end up dancing with at least three others, but here he was, elbows pressed firmly to the bar like he was saying a prayer in church, trying to coax this girl's attention. If it earned him a few more moments beneath her gaze, he would be satisfied with his efforts. If she turned away completely, maybe he would think of her for the rest of the night, look for her in the streets should he ever be back this way. That risk, embedded in the reward of her presence, fueled him as easily as any strong cocktail or drumbeat. The mistake still draws on him; he had to figure out what was off, what she was doing here and how they had crossed paths. He had approached her with certain assumptions, anticipating how she would sound, how she would react. A bad habit unchecked, he mistook her for the girls that came to places like this and danced to this music. Perhaps that girl he expected would have responded in languid Spanish, complimented his necklace or the cologne he wore, and dutifully pulled him to the dance floor. But this was not that girl, that script was dead, and he could not even rely on his preferred tongue. When two new drinks appear before them, Benicio is impressed by her command of the bartender and considers it an invitation forward. “Impossible to be boring with tequila,” he remarked, the icy glass quick to his palm. The clink of their glasses embeds her name into his memory, feeling the letters curve on his tongue. “Rosie,” he repeats, purred with a rolled ‘r’ and hissed ‘s’, reveling in the taste. “My name is Benicio,” he returns easily, testing the drink himself as if it were a novelty. “Beni, if that’s easier,” he amends, angling toward her to better funnel the sound of their conversation. He shook his head at her question, breaking out in a grin. “I’m from Puerto Rico,” he answered, head tilting in consideration. “By way of Boston, Miami, and now here. Where are you from, Rosie?"

[rosie de la cruz]

BACK IN LOVE WITH THE MOONLIGHT "I guess it consistently does surprise me," she murmurs, memories tied to the alcohol of choice both vibrant and blurred. A late night in Mexico with friends, a hazy car ride. Rapid, regrettable texts, banquettes plush under her feet as shoes are tossed in her wake. It often leads her one way or the other, insular and pining or outward and expressive, curious what this evening would devolve into as her name rolls of his tongue. "Rosalie, formally," she extends in turn, brows pinching slightly as she's not sure why she offered her full name. She hasn't gone by it in years. "But Rosie, preferred." Even after too many years of small talk, she still feels stilted in conversation. Used to topics that sometimes go over her head, references that don't belong in her world, keeping quiet is often her preferred contribution to large groups. But one on one she forgets at times she has to initiate, has to remember and reference and apply it all back to herself. For someone so formulaic she's known to stumble initially, swirling the straw around her drink and only remembering to look up when he continues on. Studying the shine of the curls that sway with his denial, the flat of his nose and easy glint of excitement in his eyes she could read as clear as day. The reflecting lights help, yes, but his shoulders drop and they angle a little closer, too. Relaxing into their small corner of the bar, Rosie silently thankful she isn't being dragged onto the dance floor with another stranger. "North Carolina," she half laughs, knowing how out of place it sounds with how she looks. "My mom's Spanish, dad's...something, South American." Truthfully she doesn't know, has never had the urge to go after him or ask for more. He had been gone and that was enough, dragging another long sip into her mouth. "And here I am. English speaking and feeling very out of place here. Funny how it works sometimes."

[benicio otero]

QUE PASE LO QUE TENGA QUE PASAR In more ways than one, his interest was irrevocably piqued. And for Benicio, that was a compelling, almost addictive quality. It would gnaw at him to simply walk away in favor of something familiar or easy—to pursue a path to a predictable outcome, or veer off course for the thrill of the unexpected. An easy choice was made with one glance back at Rosie, studying the color of her cheek, the strict arch of her brow, the curve of her hooded eyes. He watched her mouth when he couldn’t catch her voice completely, body still swaying of its own volition to the music surrounding them, almost hindering them. Rosalie, he revels in the discovery, a mystery slowly unraveling. Spanish blood, ancestry from somewhere far off, confirming his gut. It only mattered to his curiosity, holding no bearing on the pieces now being put together. He felt vindicated in his assumption, even if it seemed she did not reference or embrace the identity the same way he did. A book judged by the pretty cover, containing the pages of a surprising story. He wonders her assumptions about him, if he has even earned a moment of thought in her head. She is probably bracing herself for an onslaught of compliments or insistence to the dance floor, all prying eyes and unwelcome hands. Any other night he would already be in the middle of the crowd, mouthing the words, mapping the sounds in his mind’s eyes, but he couldn’t stop this now, not yet. He realized what he was still missing: a smile, a laugh. “If you want, I will translate the music for you,” he offers, maybe kidding. Anything to usher her into the feeling of belonging, that which he sought most from these places, this sound. No pressure, no inhibitions; a microcosm hidden briefly from the world. It was not necessary to understand the words, simply to let it take you. “But if you wanted to leave, I can help you get to the door,” he started, eyeing the bombarding mass of bodies between them and the entrance. “I don’t want to see you go, but I can get you there,” he said, tequila washing down a pitiable offer.

[rosie de la cruz]

BACK IN LOVE WITH THE MOONLIGHT Any other night she wouldn't be here, likely tucked into her desk at home, legs crossed in her chair as e-mails and Excel files drifted across her dual screens. Tea would take the place of tequila, deep base would be filtered into instrumentals and background street noise. She never minded the quiet life she'd lived for so long, so stuck in her own mind she rarely pushed the boundaries any further. It had hurt her and Tate, in the long run - and to be honest, it wasn't something she'd totally tried to work on. No time like the present, she thinks to herself, thoughts idle in her brain as the drinks settled in. Her skin felt buzzy yet cool from the constant flood of the door swinging open, gaze faltering now and again to the ebbing and flowing masses around her. Unsure if his offer is authentic or a joke, the ghost of a smile upticks her features as she looks out once more. "I don't know if you really need to understand the music to enjoy it." Watching her friends shout a single phrase now and again, enjoying themselves in the crowd and the feeling, Rosie shifts against the bar as she feels the first itch to join them. Almost instinctually her brain shuts it down, anchoring herself back to the bar and the small space she prefers to take up. "My friends are out there, they'd all berate me if I tried to take off," she gestures to Sylvie and her glossy, dark bun (twelve minutes this time), Dree's pants shimmering in the disco lights and Lila with her arms around a stranger's neck. Rosie tilts her head to watch for a moment, almost entranced at their lack of inhibition. When had she started to care so much? "I work a lot, so I don't get out much. Sometimes it's a little easier to just be a fly on the wall...though something also tells me that's not your thing."

[benicio otero]

QUE PASE LO QUE TENGA QUE PASAR She’s right, Benicio affirms with an indulgent nod. “If the music is good, you will know what it is about anyway,” he says, wondering what she made of the pulsing drum loop, the sensual hook being rasped, the infectious rhythm rattling the dance floor. The words themselves didn’t have to translate, just the energy, inspiring ripples through the crowd. With a decorated hand cupped behind his ear for show, he tracked the lyrics intently for a few beats before shaking his head, rescinding the offer. “No, no, I cannot tell you what this one is about,” he laughs sheepishly, too risqué to be whispered to a stranger. The level of his drink sinks more, moving the slice of lime to his mouth for the last sour drops. Rosie mentions being with friends and he briefly scans the crowd, unsure of which faces to look for, the type of company she kept. He could call them crazy for letting her out of their sight, abandoning her to the outskirts of the party; but he had the feeling that she was used to position, preferred it even. Content on the outside looking in, assessing her options but not making hasty decisions. He wondered what motivated that, if it was a habit learned painfully. “I like to be in the background sometimes,” he hoped to surprise her by admitting, “not always up front. So I can still enjoy without controlling too much.” He considered himself backstage at concerts where his beats were being played, his lyrics being rapped or sang. He enjoyed the anonymity even if he sometimes dreamed, warily, of the fame so close in reach. It was not a wish one could take back, trading in all privacy, even one’s own image and voice. “What do you do that keeps you so busy?” he asked, holding off on any more assumptions. He would certain she would manage to upend them, anyway; a girl like her in a city like this, the possibilities were endless. “Tell me why you’re here from North Carolina,” he couldn’t help himself, glad that she didn’t take up his offer to leave.

[rosie de la cruz]

BACK IN LOVE WITH THE MOONLIGHT There's something about a soundtrack that distills itself into memories. The sharp twist of a beat from slow to crescendo, the samples from youthful pop hits, booming drums and quiet strings. The sights, emotions, observances...everything comes together and cements itself, evoked in the future when familiar melodies croon somewhere else. Idly, Rosie wonders if she'll remember this night. The questions that blur between them over time, drinks draining then refilling, tentative inquiries leading to untethered answers as the hours drip on. When she mentions she works in finance it's fun feeling proud of it for a few seconds, gently skirting around the workplace cliches she lived daily. It's second nature to gloss over her life that to anyone else looks impossibly accomplished - her degree from Cornell, her Goldman position, her ability to juggle so many things at one - so used to keeping it all in. It takes her a second to remember she hadn't met someone completely new in a while, or one intrigued enough to keep her talking. Rounded eyes trace the way he nods along to the latest song, lips mouthing unfamiliar, clipped lyrics under his breath as they're eased together at the edge of the crowds. Settled into their own corner, Rosie slowly falling prey to intoxication and her own, budding curiosities. "How do you know every single lyric? For the past hour, every single one!"

[benicio otero]

QUE PASE LO QUE TENGA QUE PASAR Lately, it felt as though he were stuck in a creative rut. It could have been the turn of the weather toward winter, his least favorite time of year, until he fled to the tropics for the holidays. It could have been the sudden pause in momentum gained throughout the year, shelved while friends and collaborators rested with their families. Rest was deserved, and of course he enjoyed it, but above all he tended to follow the flow of muse—and often it came or went without warning. That was the appeal of outings like these, flashes of novelty to inspire him: a new place, a different scene, a stranger’s body and bed. The key, and usually the first thing forgotten by the urge of indulgence, was moderation… low enough doses as to not over-saturate. With Rosie, he was already thinking of how he might describe her voice (what pitch, which note) and translate her into a sound. Occasionally he would brave glances around her face, at the motion of her hands, more brazen down her curves when the overhead lights spun their way. When he noticed their glasses echo empty, he says something in quick Spanish to the passing bartender, replacements appearing in front of them. He listens to her talk about her job in a sector he knows nothing about, college years spent upstate, hints of a girl with an intimidating drive, something to prove. His surprise has yet to be dampened, wondering what she will uncover next. But he is hesitant to show his cards, enjoying the anonymity afforded by someone not in his world, either. “I like this music,” he laughs, a rich baritone sound amplified in the rim of his drink, tequila stinging his throat. “I try to make music like this,” he budged, catching her eyes. Of his job, he was coy: a little this and that, I’ve done a lot of things. He caught the beginning seconds of another song trickling through. Pressing forward to get closer to her ear, aware of their height difference, he cleared his throat. His hand ghosted to her elbow, careful of spooking her backwards into distracted and chaotic bystanders likely to absorb her. “Watch. If I’m right, I can tell you it is probably going to get crazy in here with this next song,” he predicted, seconds away from the infamous buildup. The drop often inspired a rapture in crowds like this, had seen it himself before. Of course he knew it: he had produced it.

[rosie de la cruz]

BACK IN LOVE WITH THE MOONLIGHT If there's one thing Rosie had become particularly good at over time, it was subtle understanding. Body language, modest cues, the certain way someone spoke...crashing head first into a world she'd barely been prepared for, it took an internal monologue of refinement and quick clues from Tate to realize there was a world between the lines. That someone saying one thing meant another, that boasting was gauche, that competition was fierce and quick. It's why she holds her tongue when he brushes off his profession. This and that means something creative, means unique friends and often successful ventures and an awareness of almost anyone in a room at all times in his element. She wonders, briefly, what specificity that entails, until another dose of tequila knocks the obvious sense into her. Music, she chides the obvious answer stark in her brain. He works in music. It's second nature in the way he moves, how he shifts just before a shift of a song or the ease of a smile that betrays him three notes in. His confirmation is subtle but sends a thrill coursing through her, bubbling into a laugh under her breath she tries to hide with the straw. Her mind is buzzing, the place is still buzzing, friends lost long ago into the masses that seem to thrum with the energy he's expecting. Sure enough, a pause then a surge, cheers echoing through the place so loud she smiles brightly at the impact. Mouth betraying her initial attempts at keeping her assumptions under the radar. "Well you're either a master vibe reader, or I think you know someone on the track. Fess up, Beni."

[benicio otero]

QUE PASE LO QUE TENGA QUE PASAR Finance, economics…these were topics he had never really delved into. In the flow of conversation, he mentioned a brief semester at a Miami college, taking music and business classes. The former were rudimentary, unnecessary; he was frustrated he could not skip them due to college rules. The latter were intimidating, sterile; he resolved to leave that to experts in the future when he made enough money to pay them. One lesson he did remember, however, was the principle of scarcity. Something rare was coveted, demand over supply—like diamonds. Right now, it was Rosie’s smile. He could find any other across the bar, could say something kind or silly to anyone in vicinity and see their face split. But not hers, so he wanted it more. Then, suddenly, it’s there. The bar explodes with energy, drunk mouths shouting along, the floor rattling with dancing so frantic it beckoned them from all sides. His expectant laugh is drowned out by the celebration, an innocent, almost childlike excitement he had yet to shake when his music was received like this. It’s louder now and he’s closer to her again, both out of necessity and want. “Mami I’m a psychic,” Benicio claimed, grinning a shiny smile. The temperature was climbing, the wintry air condensing along the windows. The sleeves of his sweater get pushed up to his elbows, patches of tattoos throwing shadows across his forearms against the bar. Not yet, he couldn’t tell her. It was too much to explain when he wanted to learn more about her, listen to her talk all night. She had barely stepped into this night in the first place, all by luck; he couldn’t spoil it. “OK OK, I saw the DJ’s playlist,” he recovered smoothly, wiping his brow as if he had been found out, red-headed. The tequila was working its way in his system, demanding levity, his blood pulsing with the bass. He dared not look at a clock, tipping back the last of his (third? fourth?) drink. “If I was a psychic, I would predict that you dance with me during the next song,” he rasped, brazen and potentially disastrous.

[rosie de la cruz]

BACK IN LOVE WITH THE MOONLIGHT It was getting harder and harder to play it cool the longer the night went on. She was used to careful composure, the steady, unwavering cornerstone of sometimes chaotic friends and unintentional aftermaths. But this night, the drinks, the music...she felt her resolve starting to crumble, smile slipping through at his casual persistence. Choosing to hold on pressing further on his explanation, letting the night be what it may And what it was, was electric. Close proximities and shouted responses inches away from one another, drawn closer with the surge of the crowd and the carelessness that came with having one too many. Rosie's thoughts are warm and weightless, connecting haphazardly to one another, expression a little less guarded. Brows pulled less in attempts to hear him through the roars, body mindless as she swayed with the audience that shoved against her. "You know the next song's good too, then?" Rosie questions, brow arced in a challenge as she draws her straw to her mouth, finishing off another round she'd lost count of. It's why, she thinks, she doesn't immediately deny his request. Entertained enough with their conversation, in control but standing blurred on her own edges, softened gaze turning to the crowd once again as she contemplated then decided. Shoulders squaring back to him. "Fine," she starts, placing her empty drink back on the edge of the bar. "But then I need to go home."

[benicio otero]

QUE PASE LO QUE TENGA QUE PASAR There’s a value in what hasn’t been said, meaning extracted from the omitted. No boyfriend had been mentioned, and more favorably, no one had come looking for him from the shadows. With over a decade of experience, Benicio was well aware that these attempts were a mix of variables—luck, timing, intuition—competing against risk. A window not only closing but simultaneously inching out of reach, a moving target. There was an inventory that he knew now: her name, snippets of history, her perfume, the occasional flash of her teeth. They could just be simple tonight, one of the crowd; him as an observer and her as a passerby. Everything inspires closeness: the tug of the crowd around them, the sultry beats of the current song, the tequila rising in their cheeks. She asks him a question and the truth is, he doesn’t know what’s coming next, but that excites Benicio. It could be a precarious moment—would she prefer something slow and sensual, or upbeat and urgent? He thinks about what a song would sound like if he were to make it right now with what little he knew of her. “If you are dancing with me, it’s already my favorite song,” he said, freeing the now-emptied glass to offer his hand to her. The song starts, and he thinks it must be good choice given the hour, cresting well past midnight, clocks resetting to a new beginning. She will have to go home, Rosie warns; soon it will feel like spoiling a good dream by waking up in the middle of it. But he can’t waste the opportunity, leading her further into the crowd, lights and lasers casting colored glows across the silhouettes. Another private corner of their own, turning to meet her, dark curls overflowing through the opening of his hat. His touch hovered above her waist, in question, seeking permission. He knew better than to lay hands on women without asking, aware of the positions they were put into by presumptuous men. To do that to Rosie would turn her away from the bar, from him, maybe even from the music forever. “Just feel it, I will follow you.”