It wasn’t Madrid. And it wasn’t the Restaurante Terete.
But it was an OK Cuban restaurant way back down behind Harvard Square. Sandra knew that lunch there might appease my anger; every little bit would help. It wasn’t every day that a fiance informed her promised one that the STD she had given him came from her new boyfriend.
I ate the meal silently, not trusting to speak with anything more than an occasional grunt. But then, Sandra finally gave up trying to find excuses for the infidelity but continued to brazenly insist that she had never meant to give me the Clap.

She fumbled with the check and admitted I’d have to pay. I excused myself and went to use the men’s room. Passing around the small rebate in the corridor, I entered the kitchen, greeted my buddy Carlos, and exited the kitchen door.

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