She never played the same tune twice.  And when she did, it was with an audible sigh of resignation.  For each song was like a man. Esperanza couldn’t bear repeating mistakes. Hope lay in that impenetrable silence that only her notes could pierce.  If she could just get it right, impro-vise enough, the piece would come off in a melo-dious explosion of sound sure to bring forth applause from the gathering crowd.
        The fact that they congregated in a shopping mall by a chocolate chip cookie stand was beside the point.
    
Esperanza poised herself upright like a ballerina and brought the long metal reed to her lips.  Today she had done up her hair.  Coiled slick like a snake at the nape of her neck, it glistened like a black python.  She thought of Harvey lying naked in her flat and inhaled deeply, letting out all regret and longing with her first exquisite bridge.
        Why did they do it? she wondered.  Drive her to this brink again and again?  Perhaps it was insanity, that first early flush of love that made a man trust a woman to be everything.  In Cancun, men were more apt to believe this after a Tequila or two.  And the young women, ay…  Esperanza wasn’t even willing to consider the vast legacy of “girls gone wild.”
    
Esperanza furthered her improvisation of Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos, thinking that the caymanas had appeared hungry this morning.  Tonight, the little beasties would indulge in yet another snack.
        There was this funny stretch of water among which the crocodiles frolicked.  Frolicked and picked off light evening hor d’oeuvres in the form of unsuspecting tourists who couldn’t read the prejudicial warning signs posted only in Spanish.
        The truth was that nobody, not even the Mexicans, believed the urban myth that these reptiles ate people.
        Nobody but Esperanza.
     
Esperanza bowed to her fans.  
        A man requested Besame Mucho and she acknowledged him slightly with a cunning smile.
        He was bald, middle-aged and perpetually bored with his high maintenance wife. The bleached blonde, weighted down by shopping bags on his arm, was a testament to both his success and ultimate frustration with the life he’d achieved.  
        As she packed up her flute, the man approached.  “That was inspiring.  You play with great passion.”
        Esperanza kept her dark eyes fixed on her case, disembodied her instrument and put it away.
        “We all find inspiration in what we need,” she said, her charcoal gaze upon him.
        The man faltered, at once losing his nerve.  “I meant only to compliment you.”  His wife was nowhere in sight.
        “A compliment means nothing, señor.  A dry martini, on the other hand, is worth a thousand words.”
        He colored from the neck up.  “The hotel bar, across the street.  Five o’clock.”
        Esperanza studied his plump round lips, considering.  If only he didn’t have that plump
round belly to match.  “What’s your name?”
        “Carmichael.”  

        “First or last?”  
        “First name’s Pete.”
        “Bueno, Pete.  Tomorrow at five o’clock.  Tonight I have plans.”
        “I hope you will play for me sometime.”
        “Como no?”  

Tomorrow at five would be just the beginning. The start of yet another evening ending up the same.
        One unfaithful man and a jilted ex-wife, with a murder weapon disguised as an instrument.
        No one would ever suspect her.
        He’d never know until it was too late.
    
Esperanza let the long ebony gown slide from her shoulders.  
        “You’re beautiful,” Pete said, bringing his hands to her breasts.
        “Please, let me play for you,” she said, raising her flute high above him.
        “What else will you do for me?” he asked with a lascivious grin.
        “More than you could imagine,” she said, the arc of her ivory arm a crescendo.
        In a flash, he saw it come down upon him.
        Esperanza stared at him there, fly undone, not even sure why she’d done it.
        Yet, whatever the reason, no matter the cause, Esperanza was sure of one thing: No other finale would go quite this way.  There was nothing Esperanza hated more than repetition.
        
Esperanza turned toward the mirror and coiled up her hair, slick like a black python.
        Tomorrow would be different.
        Every day brought new hope along with possibilities.
        But tonight, by the light of the warm wicked moon, there were caymanas to feed. 
    
   
                         About The Author
  
        Rosa Turner Boschen has published five novels under the name of Rosa Turner Knapp, including three award-winning electronic books (two thrillers and one children’s mystery, Ghost of Willow Hollow, Crossroads Publishing), and  two romantic comedies in trade paperback with Kensington/Zebra, which she sold in translation in Denmark, Brazil and Norway.  She has also published short fiction and essays on the Web and poetry in print journals and anthologies.  In addition, seven of her screenplays have been optioned for film, and her film work and novels are now under representation by the Abrams Artists Agency, New York.  In March 2007, and as part of the Virginia Festival of the Book, her essay “From Fiction to Film: Crafting Screenplays from Books” was printed by invitation in The Blue Ridge Anthology: Poetry and Prose by Central Virginia Writers (Cedar Creek Publishing) alongside works by notable Charlottesville writers David Baldacci and Rita Dove.
        She welcomes visitors to her new web site: www.rosaturnerboschen.com.
    
    
    
                        Copyright © Rosa Turner Boschen