One night, Espuma and Junio Church, two great rivals for singing fame and the affection of all women, found themselves escaping their wives and families in the same night club in the heart of Hialeah.  Both men, in an effort to lighten such burdensome responsibilities, had focused their attentions on a young Latina of exceptional beauty and smoldering, dark eyes. The innocent girl was overwhelmed by the two luminaries and did not know with which to lay her trust and affection, Junio with his suave maturity, bright smile and receding hairline, or Espuma with his pompadour hair and handsome ego.

“I cannot decide between you,” she protested as she felt pulled on either side by the men at her table and the third bottle of champagne.

“I have an idea,” said Junio.  “We’ll sing for you.  The man who is most sincere in his song, you choose to give your full regard.”

Deliciosa!” the beauty cried with delight.

“I’ll go first,” Junio said.

“No,” protested Espuma.  “I am the better singer.  I will go first and there will be no need for the viejo to sing.”

“Perhaps you are right,” said Junio with that dazzling smile.  “You are young, good-looking and may have the better voice.  You go first and maybe save me the embarrassment.”  With that, he took the woman’s hand in his and gave it a warm squeeze.

Espuma rose to his feet with the gravity and posture of a matador.  “I will be right back.”

Half an hour, five slow dances and two more bottles of France’s finest later, Junio said “This place has become tedious.  Let us go for a cafecito on Calle Ocho and see what the world has to offer.”

“But Espuma,” the beauty reminded.

“Oh, he’ll be another twenty minutes in front of the mirror.  He is legendary for his preparation.  In the meantime, life is passing us–you and me–by.  Let him enjoy himself while we enjoy one another.”

The beauty insisted they wait just a while longer, but, when ten more minutes had passed with no sign of Espuma, who was indeed deep in concentration before the bathroom’s gilded mirror, she raised her last glass with a sultry “Salud,” drank deeply and took Junio’s arm.

They began with cafecitos, then continued dancing in Coconut Grove, sipping powerful mojitos while nestling in a dark leather booth surrounded with green palms.  Kisses turned to embraces more passionate than dance moves and Junio suggested they fly to Europe and take dessert in Paris while the moon shone down on them through the girders of the Eiffel Tower.  In no time they were airborne in Junio’s private jet which crossed the Atlantic in a blink.  Paris was followed by warm sangria and lovemaking on Junio’s private yacht upon whose deck the beauty awoke one morning to the soft lapping of waves and warmth of a golden Spanish sun just off the coast.  With a long, luxuriant stretch and yawn, she drank in the glorious moment and disrobed for a bit of sunbathing, to the delight of the king of Spain who hovered not far off in his helicopter, binoculars held to his face with one hand and a cell phone in the other.

“This is your finest conquest, Junio,” the king said. “She is exquisite beyond words. Sabrosa. I cannot thank you enough for calling me and sharing in this way.”

“I am your servant, my king,” Junio responded into his phone from the cabin of the yacht.  “And it was all made possible by the ego of that conceited fool Espuma.”

“He does have nice hair, though,” replied the king.

“Yes, and knowing that is what won me amor.”  Then his tone changed as he said “You’ll forgive me now, your majesty.  I must call my wife and tell her how much I miss her.”

“Of course,” said the king.  “You are a fine husband.”  He waved his right hand and the helicopter pilot tilted his cyclic control stick to circle incrementally closer.

(Thanks to for my unauthorized inclusion of a beautiful piece of art in the above digital collage.)