(Cholula,) There was a band, some Mariachi outfit in a roasting bar; we danced till I caught a bad beat and puked in a box of Dos Equis bottles in the parking lot. She was dancing, Adibe, when I came back, a drink held up over her head, and this crotchy Catholic-girl swing she had, so watching her you knew how she’d be with her black tight slacks off and the windows pulling tropic early-morning damp in the room and her neck bent to kiss like a horse drinking, a sharp peak of shoulder-blades - hair falling around her brown Naco face. It’d smell like old smoke, puke, tile after a squall in the afternoon; like night swollen with rain, shit-drunk, heavy-lidded and utterly fuckall. Then she was dancing with Oscar, who told her the night-guardia at the church-topped pyramid 'd sell us hash. Not that we wanted it, but we headed up empty Camino Real in the cold waking-up dark, under streetlamps that rendered us in ones and twos. And Adibe rolled sleepily against me like a cat - and Oscar as well - sang softly, - amor, por ti bebí mi propio llanto... and mixed up the verses; and a drunk old sadness made the night airless and splendorous, made a game of not falling in the swell- and-dip of the big dew-slick cobbles, till the wondrous seriousness of keeping our feet under us left us, and we fell.