Beantown Cubans. Johnny Diaz

together last year when alcohol wasn’t a third wheel in our relationship.

      We spend the rest of the closing hour scrutinizing innumerable details from our bird’s-eye view of the city. As Mikey finds something familiar in a new light, I, too, adjust my own personal viewfinder of him. The freckles and scruff on his face. The way he furrows his thin, light brown eyebrows as he squints at another point in the distance. Watching him compounds my feelings of warmth toward him. But most of all, he seems centered, comforted by his own peace of mind. Mikey seems like a different person, someone unanchored by the weight of alcohol. He hasn’t brought up going to Club Café or ordering a drink, which is what I always dreaded him asking on the weekends. Right now, he seems completely content to be here with me. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else, with my, ahem, friend. I can just imagine what Carlos would say to me now if I shared these thoughts with him. Ay, loco! And maybe I am crazy to think that I can just be friends with Mikey. Well, I’m trying.