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If Zoraida and Marilu had not met they might each be married. But they did meet, because they lived in Sagua La Grande, a place too small and contradictory to offer any choice in the matter.
Marilu lived two blocks away in a house full of women, on a street teeming with boys. She preferred the boys. She wore their baggy, leftover shorts and played baseball until the calluses on her palms hardened into bulbous black snails.
Marilu arrived breathless, eager to retrieve it and hit her own home run. It was the singular thing on her mind until she found: Zoraida. It was hard for any of us to imagine a time when Zoraida would not be beautiful.
Pressed to find a why for her perpetual baby-nakedness, the more optimistic neighbors among us had attributed it to her effortless beauty, and not the ravaging regret Farola felt for having to leave the night-lit sky and modernity of Berlin. By the time she had snapped out of it, Zoraida was nearly a toddler parked in a puddle of spilled milk in their kitchen, watching her through angry wet eyes that flashed from green to brown.