“You didn’t tell him? Right?! You know how he will react!” I detect a tremor in your voice as you confront your friend, Shevanka.

“Don’t worry Gerdine, it’s our girls’ night out! You’re with me, and I certainly don’t need my older brother babysitting me!” Shevanka replies with an indignant scowl.

She is deflecting your question about her brother Rolando, your boyfriend. I can spot a lie when I hear one. You however, choose to still believe her. Just as you still continue to hold on to your initial belief that his vigilance towards his sister—a quality you once saw as a sign he would be good for you—was indicative of love, rather than the controlling behavior it soon revealed itself to be.

Shevanka turns to the restroom mirror, pouts her lips, and adjusts the neckline of her tight sequin dress to expose a bit more of her bursting cleavage. You hadn’t dared wear a dress and opted instead for black jeans and, after some hesitation, a free-flowing blouse that hovers just below your belly button, subtly revealing a hint of skin. You nervously rummage through your small bag for your lipstick but can’t find it.

Glancing at your reflection, you notice the sweat stains under your arms. You sigh in dismay. Shevanka catches your reflection in the mirror and remarks: “Well, at least here nobody really pays attention to how much you’re sweating. We’re all feeling this Caribbean heat!” You like her occasional boldness and indifference to what other people think. She shares these traits with her brother. Although with him, his escalating disregard for limits and lack of self-restraint unsettles me.

You exit the restroom together and head towards the open-air dance floor. As you stroll along the balcony of the renovated plantation house, the venue for tonight’s party, a tropical breeze funnels through, playfully tossing your hair and slightly lifting your blouse. I catch a glimpse of your familiar brown skin, the outline of your lower back shimmering with sweat in the dim lighting.

You both make your way to the dance floor and soon find yourselves in the midst of the crowd. Bodies bump and brush against each other as everyone moves to the Caribbean rhythms and lyrics of local carnival songs, well-known Salsa Antiyana hits, and occasionally, a Latin merengue, salsa or bachata track.

At first your movements are a bit stiff, uneasy. The closer I get to you, the more you start relaxing, gradually allowing yourself to absorb the music and vibrant energy around you. Your face softens, your muscles relax. Every so often, you burst into laughter as one of your dance partners twirls you around. You smile and say hello to familiar faces on the dance floor. The atmosphere is charged with an energizing, upbeat energy. There’s a sense of spontaneity, openness, enthusiasm and joy of living among the party-goers that you wouldn’t typically see during the day or at more formal gatherings. But in this setting, with the band playing everyone’s favorite songs, all the usual reservations and composure, typical of this small island community are set aside.

In these fleeting moments, you seem to forget everything—where you are, who you are—and your inner light radiates in its purest form. These moments are becoming increasingly rare, but I cherish each and every one of them.

I don’t notice Rolando until he is suddenly standing behind you, his nostrils flaring with anger. He grabs your arm and forcefully turns you to face him. His intense anger ensnares you like a lasso around runaway cattle. Involuntarily, I take a few steps back. Fear and embarrassment are evident in your eyes as your gaze flicks between his face and the onlookers. Shevanka murmurs a quick hello to her brother and swiftly retreats to the bar.

I hear your pleading voice, “Please, Rolando, calm down. Let go of my arm.” Then you whisper the few words that sometimes still reach him: “People are watching.” He releases your arm, and casts a wary glance around.

People are watching, their expressions a mix of curiosity and concern. A man steps forward and asks if everything is okay. You muster your most convincing smile and assure him, “Yes, I’m fine, everything is fine.” As you take a step toward Rolando to try and prove your point, he quickly throws his arm around your shoulder, pulling you close.

“Yeah, we’re good, right, mi dushi?” he says with a forced casualness. “I was just worried about where my sweety was. You know how it is man, women don’t always tell you where they’re at.” The man doesn’t seem fully convinced by Rolando’s words, or yours for that matter, but still, he backs off. It’s a scene I’ve witnessed far too often.

Rolando moves his arm from your shoulders to your lower back. He slides his hand under your blouse. Only my trained eye notices the way Rolando tightens his grip around your side, his fingers digging into your body as he steers you away from the party towards the exit. I maintain my distance.

The parking area is simply a large, cleared dirt field—dusty and unpaved. Despite this, there is a semblance of structure, with cars organized into makeshift rows. The bright lights of two lamp posts, each positioned at the far corners of the field and powered by roaring diesel generators, offer visibility and some measure of safety and security to the party-goers and their cars. Rolando has double-parked his car close to the entrance, clearly not intending to stay too long.

Once you reach the car, he grips your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes as he hisses his familiar threats. He pushes you into the vehicle. He calls out to his sister, urging her to hurry as she nervously scurries toward the car.

I scan the entrance and the parking lot. There are people around. They must be sensing that something is not quite right. If they choose to, someone could recognize that this might be more than just an innocent lovers’ quarrel. Someone could choose to acknowledge the situation. Someone could intervene—if they wanted to, if they dared.

I linger behind. I know what awaits us when we get home, and seeing how you nervously rub your hands, I can tell you do too. By now, you have completely forgotten about me. It might be a while before you think of me again. Sometimes, I fear you might forget me completely.

Of course, even if you would forget me, I’d still be around, all be it quiet, dried out and stale, much like a discarded slice of bread. Like all sparks of joy I am inherently linked to my designated individual human. I’ve been with you every moment since the day you were born. When you allow me to, I elicit smiles, laughs, a lightness in your chest and a powerful, revitalizing energy.

Deep down, I know you want me to be around more. But my spark can merely guide you. It is up to you—your mind, your heart and your body—to decide to walk away from Rolando. And maybe even convince Shevanka to leave with you.

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