La Cantina

by Joseph Grant

In the room over the cantina they made love. It was early afternoon now and Catalina stood at the window, naked to the world before her, she did not care, for she was proud of her body and each sinuous curve of it and her eyes trailed the uneven cobblestones of the courtyard to the bougainvillea that grew in bright Technicolor magenta bloodbursts against the ancient sun-blasted adobe wall. Her gaze was carried aloft to the Mediterranean-style orange Spanish-tiled roofs and the powder blue sky that was only interrupted by the hard brown sun-baked mountains that ended at the azure sea and the wharf where the fishermen would bring in the day’s catch of streamlined-looking silver tuna if they caught anything at all, save for the glimpse of her loveliness between the open shutters. She heard the shower turn off and wondered if Reynaldo truly loved her like he said when they were having sex or making love as he corrected her and romanced her in telling her that her body was an endless, sumptuous feast from the creamy nape of her neck to the sweet, ripe cantaloupes that were her breasts to the cinnamon of her inner thighs to the dusky sunken banquet between them. As in the case of any man, he dressed and split downstairs to La Cantina, telling her he was famished and asked if she wanted anything but she said no, she smiled to herself that she would like to linger in the moment a little while longer. After he had gone, she opened up the bureau drawer and found bibles and a gun and wondered what a bible salesman would be doing with a loaded gun?


For some background on "La Cantina," watch the video below (which was shot last evening at the White Horse Tavern in New York City's West Village).

Joseph Grant's full 6S catalog is here.