The man pushed up on the arms of his chair to rise. He was slender, a lean body in tan trousers that had been cut off to make shorts. No, he wasn’t Puerto Rican. The girl Iris took his arm, to be close rather than to support him. He limped somewhat, using the cane, favoring his right leg, but seemed near the end of his injury, whatever it was. He wasn’t a cripple. Something in the hip, Isidro believed. Sure, he was okay, he played with the cane more than he used it. He liked that cane. They approached a vendor who was selling pineapples.

Isidro waited a few moments, enjoying the sight of the girl’s buttocks as they walked past him, before following them to the cart where the vendor was trimming a pineapple with quick strokes, handing them slices. Isidro saw the girl’s eyes as she glanced at him and away, indifferent, without a sign of recognition. He heard the man who wasn’t Puerto Rican, it was proved now, say quietly:

“People up there, you know what they do?”

The girl, Iris, said, “Here we go again.”

“They work their ass off all year.” The guy with the beard ate pineapple as he spoke, in no hurry. “Save their money so they can come down here for a week, take their clothes off. Now they have to hurry to get tan, so they can go back home and look healthy for a few days.”

Iris said, “Vincent, I was born with a tan, I got a tan wherever I go. Wha’s that? I want to be where people are, where they doing things, not where they go to for a week.” They were walking away now, Iris saying, “Miami Beach is okay, tha’s where you work. I think I like Miami Beach fine.”

Isidro followed them to the edge of the sand.

“But you never tell me nothing, what you think. Listen, I got an offer right now, Vincent. A man I know owns a hotel, two hotels, wants me to go to the States and work for him. Wear nice clothes, be with people in business-”