Zuleyka regards you searchingly as she stirs her drink, her almond eyes—penetrating as ever—reflecting the amber whiskeys, frosted glass indanthrene vodka bottles, and rubescent liquors lining the upper shelves of the bar as you slide onto the stool beside her. "James. You've been doing well."

It's not a question, and the warm in her voice is unmistakable. Lips curve in collusive welcome; your own unconsciously follow suit. An embrace follows, that familiar press of cheek to cheek, an intimacy that should have been tempered to perfunctory civility by familiarity, yet somehow acquires pulse-increasing freshness by reason of an overlong—oh, how terribly overlong—absence.

At least, that’s what a weaker man than you would think. Parting from your former lover you reply simply, "Extraordinarily well," your stoic expression betraying none of the churning emotions that are non-existent within you, but which you could be easily tempted to simulate and project. This moment of reunion would certainly lend itself easily to melodramatic displays and thinly veiled recriminations.

But the good-natured light dancing in Zuleyka's eyes makes you think that she doesn't hold any ill will towards you. It's almost as if your less than amicable parting has been relegated to the recesses of the past. You open your mouth to adumbrate…

"¡Ah-ah-ah!" She raises a slender finger tapering down to a wine-red painted nail and for a fleeting moment you think she'll press it to your lips. "First, el viejo juego."

Is she serious? "Zuleyka, I'm not going to—"

"Sí, sí, viejo mío. I'll start." Crossing a leg beneath the counter and and evidently enjoying herself, she begins. “I have to say, you haven’t changed a bit, James. With a face like Michaelangelo’s David, arms as strong as the pillars of Solomon’s Temple, legs like Corinthian columns, and a chest like the Triclinium of Nero's Domus Aurea, you remain a flawless specimen of masculinity."

"The architectural references are most appreciated, O lady fair whose teeth are as white as the sails of the galleon that bore Cortés and his men to conquer the Aztecs."

Zuleyka splutters into her drink as she concedes to your hyperbolic one-upsmanship with a faux-glare, an undercurrent of Native heritage flashes through her predominantly Latina features to striking effect. "Really James? You're using an instrument of genocide to compliment me? I see your dubious sense of humor has survived your conversion. Or has it gotten worse?"

"'Now that four centuries have sped since a Ligurian first, under God's guidance, touched shores unknown beyond the Atlantic, the whole world is eager to celebrate the memory of the event, and glorify its author...'" you recite in the manner of a schoolboy taught his lesson by rote, then jerk back with a broadening grin as Zuleyka reaches over to swat your arm no less feebly than adorably. After satisfying her wrath, her hand reaches out to touch your forearm as she leans in towards you ever so subtly, only to retreat slightly as she notices a pair of troubled blue eyes observing from behind you.

Ah. That’s right.

You turn your head to see Amie staring at Zuleyka, a look of undisguised interest sparked by the far-fetched imagery of your verbal sparring mingling with the faintest trace of unease on her face. "Who's James?" she inquires carefully, as Zuleyka's slender hand drops from your arm back to the bar counter.

"She's talking about me," you reply in a short tone, irritated not with Amie but rather yourself for having forgotten to warn her about Zuleyka's predilection for pet names.

As if your discomfort is tangible and has a taste to be savored at length, Zuleyka continues to smile knowingly as she appraises your android wife. If she's upset that she and Amie are wearing matching outfits, she doesn't show it. "Sí. 'Ely' is such a stuffy name. I much prefer James." Languidly untwisting herself from her stool with grace that would put a feline to shame, she approaches Amie in friendly yet not very reassuring manner. "Don't you agree, amiga?" she asks, her almond eyes briefly flitting back to yours.

"I like Ely," Amie replies cautiously, seemingly unsure as to how to proceed. Zuleyka's amusement plays freely on her face. "Oh, I don't doubt it."

Amie's eyes widen as she realizes how Zuleyka has interpreted—or chosen to interpret—her words. "I only meant..." she starts to reply, but Zuleyka has already closed the distance between them to peck her cheek. "Don't worry, chica. I'm only teasing. You're not the only woman to have eyes for a man as handsome as James." Her hand briefly rests on Amie's shoulder as she looks deep into her eyes. "If you didn't, I'd be very cross with you, entiendes?"

Amie's fingers twist themselves into the folds of her black dress. "Yes," she manages to reply, though a hint of a quiver betrays her attempt at keeping her composure. Zuleyka takes a step back and favors you both with an ambiguous expression. "Now, what do you say we made our way to our table? I'm dying to introduce you to my partner."