Men and women in Key West

A warm, ripe tomato dressed in vinegar and salt is always a surprise. The sharpness of the vinegar balances the seductive feel of the fruit on your tongue.

I remember the first time I ate one that way. A small dish of tomato slices rested on the table between Carlos and me, his Mamí and Papí and Mamí's boyfriend, Ernesto. I took a slice and passed the dish to Carlos.

Carlos had warned me about his grandparents' unconventional relationship the day before, as we made the drive from Miami to Key West where they lived. Ernesto and his wife had been their neighbors for many years. When his wife passed away, he moved into the house soon after. Since Papí was too old to be interested in sex, it didn't take long for Ernesto to move into Mamí's bedroom too. Papí didn't mind too much, because he liked the company. The old men would sit in the front room together, watching television all day. It was clear from Mamí's fiery red hair stacked high on her head and her deep belly laughs that she wore the pants in the family.

The two old men piled their plates high and silently worked their way through them, as Mamí peppered Carlos with questions in Spanish. She didn't speak very much English, and I had only a semester's worth of Spanish class, so I gave up trying to follow their conversation, though I could tell they were talking about me. I took small bites of salty chicken, rice and fried plantains and tried to act like I didn't know it, letting my eyes drift around the bright blue kitchen and out the window to where neighborhood kids were playing in the street.

My plate was clean except for the tomato. They weren't my favorite, but since I didn't want to be rude, I divided it into quarters with the edge of my fork and took a bite. "Mmmm. This is the best tomato I've ever eaten," I said to Carlos, who quickly translated my words to his grandmother. "Ella dice, es major tomate que en la vida ha tenido." She smiled and pushed the dish of tomatoes toward me.

From where I sit now, hundreds of miles and more than ten years later, I can look back across that table and see what I was blind to then: an old woman full of pride for her grandson. She was expecting that he would soon have a bride.

For me, it was a cheap vacation to Florida. I had been waiting for it all winter, weighing the cost of continuing to date Carlos against spending a week on the beach. Trudging through the Rochester snow and wind, a few extra weeks seemed an easy price to pay. When we got back, my plan was to wait a few more weeks for the Viennese Ball, and then break up with him.

He was good at making a show of being a good boyfriend, bringing me roses and buying me little presents all the time. But he lashed out when I returned his phone calls too slowly, or spent an evening out with friends. Our arguments were tiresome battles, and when I would try to leave, feeling exhausted and mentally bruised, he would refuse to let me go. He'd keep me hostage in his room until I broke down and lost my anger.

Earlier that day, after we checked into the hotel where we were staying, Carlos opend a bottle of wine. He sat on the edge of the bed holding a delicately wrapped box in his hands. It was a present for me. I untied the ribbon, letting it fall to the floor and slipped off the paper. A black lace teddy lay folded inside a cushion of red tissue paper. He wanted me to put it on.

I tried it on in the bathroom with the door locked. It was cheap and itchy, something I would have never bought for myself. The material gapped between my breasts and was loose where it should have been snug. I stood on the edge of the tub so I could see myself in the small mirror above the sink. I saw the reflection of another woman--the woman Carlos wished to see. A woman who adored him and would never leave him. A woman who made him respectable to his family. A woman who would walk out the door to make love to him. I lingered for a moment on the cold tile floor inhaling the smell of rusty water and Dial soap until Carlos knocked on the door.

Mamí and Carlos chatted in Spanish as she cleared the table. As her guests, we were not allowed to help. I watched her make after dinner coffee by placing grounds and water in a small, stove-top coffee pot and set it on the burner. A pan of milk warmed next to it. She took down bright yellow cups and saucers from the cupboard, poured in the milk, then the strong black coffee and set it before me. "Café con leche," she said.

It was rich, like drinking dessert. It was more milk than coffee, which seemed odd to me, my only experience being greasy cups of coffee and single serving creamers at Denny's. Normally, I wouldn't think to sip a hot drink on a warm night, but it seemed the perfect thing.

This world, with its good tomatoes and dark coffee was like a slightly brighter version of my own. It was a place of intimate families and neighbors, spicy language and strong women. Where men and women fought and loved with a greater intensity.

Mamí smiled at me and said something in Spanish I didn't fully understand. "She says you're pretty," said Carlos. I looked at him and he looked back expectantly. "Gracias," I whispered, and stared at the floor, embarrassed.