A cold winter night and Rafael. The room was dark, the chairs were worn, and the café bustled.

That time in history when tourists had not permeated the city, and that time of the year when the deep freeze kept the streets empty late at night.

I don’t remember any conversation we shared, only his burning stare that held me hostage time and time again.

He was my type, but I did not know it then.

We drank cappuccino and ate Italian pastries here on an unremarkable night sometime in 1986.