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partner, so she mixed it up. She did a few turns with a tuxedoed Korean and then waltzed with a bespectacled economist from the AmCham who kept saying: “It’s all right,” even though she didn’t exactly know what she was doing wrong. She watched Reynato over the shoulders of her other partners, looking solid and confident and charming. He was still going strong when she called it quits and grabbed a stool at the bar. His latest partner, a skinny-armed girl in a sparkly prom-style dress, seemed very taken with him. Reynato visited Monique between dances to dab his forehead on a cocktail napkin, down one of the two Southern Comforts she’d ordered and announce that the Argentine Tango could kiss his saggy ass. His new partner waited, awkwardly patient in the middle of the floor. She reminded Monique of Leila, which was odd because Leila was younger and not as conventionally beautiful. Still, she imagined Leila in that silly dress, standing alone, just waiting. She pictured Leila with that hopeful, rejected expression. It got so that she couldn’t look at the girl anymore.

The next time Reynato came to the bar she said she wanted to go.

“Your wish, my love.”

“You don’t love me, remember?”

“I do, actually,” he said. “Between then and now, I started.” He stared at her. He clearly wanted to kiss her. She wanted him to. But thank God he didn’t. He just squeezed her hand, and they both made for the exit.

They were almost to the double doors when Charlie Fuentes—she recognized him from billboards splattered above Roxas, from his televised campaign speeches, from the absurd little dance he’d done during the candidate debates—tackled Reynato in an enthused hug. Monique kept walking, her ears and cheeks turning red as a drunk’s. Everybody knew Charlie, or knew of him. He was even on the embassy guest list for the July Fourth barbecue.

She walked a safe distance away and listened. “Son of a whore. Look at you, you son of a whore,” Charlie quit hugging and began shaking Reynato’s hand. “What, you don’t answer my calls? You must have heard the good news. It’s not a victory party without you!”

“It’s not a victory without me.” Reynato’s irritation seemed lost on his tipsy friend, who beamed warmly. “No parties tonight. I’m on my way out.”

“Aww, hell, don’t tell me. You’re probably going to some super-secret-stakeout, am I right? Look at this man,” Charlie paused to lean back and give him an exaggerated eyeballing. “Renny never stops working. I guess if I’m a dud as senator then I can at least count on you to generate enough good material for another few Ocampo flicks.” Charlie wouldn’t let go his hand. People at a nearby banquet table noticed the pair and began snapping photos of them.

“I’ll do my best,” Reynato said, his expression pained.

“No, but honestly, for real …” Charlie leaned in. He must have thought he was lowering his voice, but it remained the same volume and just got huskier. “I couldn’t have done this without you. I mean that. One of these days I’ve got to invite you and Lorna over for—”

“We’ll do it. I know. Dinner or something.” Reynato pulled his hand free and made for the doors. Charlie followed, chatting him up, causing a stir. Monique rushed to the mezzanine, down the curved stair and out into the hot, sooty evening. Reynato caught up some minutes later, grinning bitterly.

“You should’ve stayed. I’d have introduced you to the republic’s least promising new senator.”

“This isn’t a joke,” she snapped. “We could have gotten caught.”

Reynato’s wry, oddly cavalier smile slackened. “I know,” he said. “I’m sorry. I joke about lots of things that aren’t jokes.” He came in for a kiss and she pushed him away. “No one can see us here,” he protested.

“Not until we get home,” she said, the sound of her blood still filling her ears.

He’d never been to her place before. He didn’t ask for the tour. They started undressing in the entryway and were naked by the time they got to the master bedroom. Sex was usually a rush deal. They did it in hotel suites, friends’ apartments and once in Reynato’s office. Now the whole night