Some time away from all of the noise

The air in the hotel suite was heavy with the scent of expensive linen and the lingering warmth of a few hours of deep, uninterrupted sleep. Beside me, Santi was a still, dark shape against the white sheets, his breathing rhythmic and heavy.

I stayed there for a moment, pinned by the weight of his arm across my waist. It felt grounded—a sharp contrast to the frantic, fleeting existence I’d led for the last fifteen years. Slowly, I eased out of his grip, inching toward the edge of the mattress until the cool air hit my skin. He didn't stir, only let out a low, sleepy mumble that sounded like a question he wasn't quite awake enough to ask.

I escaped into the bathroom and turned the shower on as hot as I could stand it. I stayed under the spray until the tiles sweated and my skin turned a flushed pink. There was a nagging fear that if I stayed in there long enough, I’d drain the hotel’s entire reservoir of hot water, but I couldn't bring myself to step out. So, I did what I went into the tub to do, I showered. I washed and conditioned my hair, scrubbed the sweat and smell of sex off of my body and shaved my legs.

Finally, the guilt of the utility bill won out. I climbed out and cocooned myself in a pair of heavy, plush towels—one for my body, one twisted into a precarious wrap for my hair.

Back in the bedroom, I moved like a ghost. I knelt by my bag, wincing as the zipper gave a sharp skree in the silence. My wardrobe was pathetic—the curated kit of someone who had learned to live out of a single carry-on at a moment's notice. I dug past a thermal layer and a tactical belt until I found a silk skirt, panties and a fitted low cut shirt that didn't look too wrinkled. I knew the shirt was two sizes too small and I knew that my tits would be falling out if I moved the wrong way.

I retreated to the bathroom to finish up getting ready before leaving for the morning. I applied deodorant, a vigorous brushed of my hair, brushed my teeth and applied lotion, completely forgetting the sunscreen that I bought the other day with my brother. I looked at myself in the mirror—not a shadow, not an asset, just a woman in a hotel.

I hung the damp towels neatly, then found a notepad in my bag. I scribbled a note for Santi.

Santi, the sun is up and it’s getting warm out. I’m going to run a few errands before the heat hits. Back soon. Don't worry.

Once I completed the note, I left it under his phone. I grabbed the plastic keycard, some money, a rubberband to wrap around the money and the keycard and my sunglass then I left the room as quietly as possible.

The Havana morning was already humming when I stepped out, the humidity pressing against my skin like a damp palm. My first stop was a small café tucked into a colonial-era corner, with fans whirring overhead and the smell of strong tobacco and roasting beans.

"Un café cubano, por favor. Y la tortilla con hierbas," I told the waiter. A Cuban coffee, please. And the herb tortilla.

"¿Fruta también?" he asked as he wrote down my order. Fruit too?

"Sí, gracias, Señor." I said. Yes, thank you, Sir

I sat there for an hour, nursing the syrupy, potent coffee and ate the herb tortilla as I watched people who weren't looking over their shoulders. It was a luxury I wasn't used to. Afterward, I ducked into a pharmacy. The fluorescent lights felt clinical, grounding.

"Necesito la pastilla del día después," I said my voice steady despite the internal riot. I need the morning-after pill

The pharmacist was an older man, his spectacles perched precariously on the bridge of his nose. He moved with a glacial pace that grated against my ingrained sense of urgency. As he rang me up for the pills and the juice, I stared at the small sign on the counter from The Church stating that they disown those who use emergency contraceptive, condoms and prescription birth control methods.

I was lost in thought when the pharmacist repeatedly told me the total: Santi was wonderful, and waking up in his arms felt like a miracle, but I knew my own limits. I needed a mountain of therapy to untangle the knots Russia had tied in my psyche before I could even think about the permanence of marriage or the vulnerability of a child. I was still learning how to be a person; I couldn't be a mother yet. The same goes for whomever I’m sexually active with.

A long, audible sigh of frustration escaped him.

"¿Problemas con el sistema?" I asked, snapping back to the present, trying to keep my voice light even as my pulse began to tick in my jaw. System problems?

"No, no estabas prestando atención, señora. No es culpa mía que los rusos no puedan prestar atención.”  he muttered. No, you weren’t paying attention, lady. It’s not my fault Russians can’t pay attention.

"Lo siento mucho. Perdón por la molestia," I said. I'm so sorry. I apologize for the inconvenience.

"Esta bien," he grumbled, though his face remained pinched. It’s ok/

When the pharmacist sighed in frustration again, I apologized profusely and paid the total. "De nuevo, mil disculpas. Gracias por su paciencia."  Again, my sincerest apologies. Thank you for your patience.

"Vaya con Dios," he replied, already turning away. Go with God.

I grabbed the paper bag and left, finding a quiet area on the streets to take the pills in semi-private. I ducked into a small, shaded alcove near a crumbling stone archway—a sliver of shadow away from the main thoroughfare. My hands shook slightly as I cracked the seal on the orange juice and popped the blister pack. I swallowed the pill with a large gulp of the tart juice, the cold liquid sliding down my throat.

I spent the rest of the morning at a nearby department store, a sprawling palace of glass and chrome that felt like a different world from the crumbling beauty outside. I bought things that weren't practical. I bought a dress that wouldn't fold into a hidden compartment and shoes that weren't designed for running. I also bought more practical clothing and footwear that would help ease me into blending in with the locals of this beautiful island.

By the time I sat down for lunch at a paladar across from the park, my feet were aching and my shopping bags were heavy. I checked my phone. No frantic messages from the Kremlin. No missed calls from handlers. And nothing from Sera; not even passing on a thank you from Elena. Just the smell of fresh bread and the feeling of the tropical sun on my neck.

For the first time in years, I wasn't a ghost. I was just a customer waiting for her food.

When the carne asada arrived, the meat was tender and full of flavor. I ate slowly, forcing myself to taste every bite, to exist entirely within the four walls of the patio. My training screamed at me to identify the exits, to catalog the faces of the men at the bar, but I pushed it down. Eat the food. Watch the pigeons. Be here.

My phone vibrated against the wood of the table. It wasn't a burner, and the notification wasn't encrypted. It was a text from Santi.

The bed is cold. Where are you?

I stared at the screen for a long beat. In my old life, a message asking for my location was a demand for accountability, a precursor to a debrief or a scolding. With Santi, it was just a man who missed a woman.

I typed out a reply, my thumbs hovering over the glass. At lunch. Bought some clothes as my stockpile was limited. Be back in a little bit as I’m enjoying the sun.

Bring me something sweet besides you, he replied instantly. And don’t stay in the sun for so long….you’ll burn.

I’m in some shade, I said as I tried to be a little mysterious of my exact location. You might have to join me in the shower when I get back. It’s hot outside.

Santi sent the little heart emoji. If I knew anything about him, he, like me, has a very high sex drive and won’t turn down sex often.

I paid the bill, the colorful Cuban pesos feeling like play money in my hand. On the way back to the hotel, I stopped at a small stall and bought two pasteles de guayaba, the flaky crust still warm through the paper bag.

The walk back felt different. The humidity didn't feel like a weight anymore; it felt like a blanket. I passed a group of children playing with a deflated soccer ball. I just watched them play.

When I reached the hotel suite, I let myself in quietly. The room was flooded with the midday sun now, the harsh light revealing the dust motes dancing in the air. Santi was sitting up in bed, a book discarded on his lap, his hair a mess of dark curls.

He looked at the shopping bags, then at the grease-stained pastry bag in my hand, and finally at me. A slow, easy smile spread across his face—the kind of smile that made my chest ache with a terrifying sort of hope.

"You're back," he said, his voice still thick with the remains of sleep.

"I'm back," I repeated. I dropped the bags on the other chair and sat on the edge of the bed, handing him a pastry. But as I watched him take a bite of the guava tart, I knew one thing for certain, we’d enjoy each other in the shower