🎶 HEAT IN HAVANA — A New Wave of Musical Prose with Caribbean Soul 🎤📖 🎸

artwork & poetry specially provided by NS

“Heat in Havana: A Night That Doesn't Ask”

🔥 Introduction (1–2 mins)
Hook
“Have you ever lived a night so alive that it stopped belonging to time?”
That’s what “Heat in Havana” is about — a chapter where touch matters more than words, and music doesn’t need to be heard to be felt.

Context
This is a chapter from an acoustic novel — a form where story and sound blend. Think of it like a movie scene you can hear and read. This moment takes place in Cuba, during a break in the characters’ journey. But it’s not a pause — it’s a turning point.

🎧 Soundtrack Prompt (optional live or link)
Introduce the mood with a song suggestion — either play it softly in the background if you're reading live or share a link if posting:

🎵https://shemzee.bandcamp.com/track/--725

>>

HEAT IN HAVANA
The bar had no name. Or at least no sign. Everyone called it El Abismo because people there sank — into rum, into darkness, into desires that had nowhere else to go. It was on the corner of two streets that smelled of mango and gasoline. Inside, it was cramped, suffocating, and wonderful.
The fan swung dangerously, as if it might fall on some wide-eyed tourist at any moment. The walls were plastered with photos of dancers, boxers, and a half-naked woman with a cigar who suspiciously resembled Desita.
They sat in the corner, at a table sticky with sugar syrup and time.
Desita ordered Canchánchara — rum, honey, lime, ice, and life.
Stella took a Cuba Libre, but without lime.
Stan said nothing — they ordered him an El Presidente. Strong and sweet. Like everything you’re not ready to admit.
“Cheers to everything we didn’t say in time,” Desita raised her glass, her eyes shining.
The rum slowly loosened the knots in their throats. Laughter became more frequent. Touches — bolder. Stella leaned toward Stan, whispered something, then laid her hand on his thigh and left it there. Just like that. Gently, naturally, as if her place had always been there.
Desita watched them. Smiled. Then leaned forward. Her eyes were wet from alcohol and something else not spoken of in a bar.
“You know…” she began, her voice soft like sugarcane syrup. “When I watched you recording… for a moment I thought maybe… you two… shouldn’t just be two.”
A pause fell. One of those you feel in your knees.
Stella looked at her intently. Then smiled.
“Maybe not.”
Stan laughed, but nervously. Desita took his hand and said quietly:
“In Cuba, we don’t believe in boundaries when it comes to feelings. Or bodies. Especially when everything is so… warm. And the music still plays in your bones.”
Then she took Stella’s hand, placed it on hers, and pressed all three hands to her chest.
“I’m just saying. No need to answer. Let’s just… have another.”
She raised her hand and ordered three Cancha Extras. Double rum and fewer inhibitions. Outside, the night was spilled like ink, the bar’s music spilled onto the sidewalk, and in Stan’s eyes something was shifting — fear, laughter, curiosity, and that particular masculine confusion when two women talk about “maybe.”
Stella downed her drink. Then whispered:
“You Cuban women… you can dance even without music.”
“And you Bulgarian women — you can kiss even when you resist.” Desita replied, her tongue almost touching the rim of the glass.
The rum disappeared. Hands no longer knew whose they were. Laughter switched to silence, then back to laughter. Everyone felt that the night wouldn’t remain just a night.
And somewhere in Desita’s pocket, the flash drive with the recording warmed her thigh.
Cuántas veces volaré contigo no es relevante.
And she knew that tonight it would prove true.

---

Desita’s house was old and beautiful like everything from Papa Hemingway’s good old days. High ceilings, peeling plaster, and windows that didn’t close completely. Inside, it smelled of incense, lime, and something sweet, damp, almost alive — maybe banana leaves, maybe herself.
The walls were covered with gramophone records, old posters, photos of men who had been celebrities a century ago. A fan spun lazily over a bed with white sheets that looked like canvases. There was a hammock, a lampshade made of shells, and a gramophone quietly playing bolero — a voice like an unbuttoned shirt at midnight.
The three entered silently. Stella was barefoot and had smeared makeup. Stan was quiet, as if trying not to think. Desita smiled the way only women who know what’s going to happen and aren’t afraid do.
“Welcome,” she said to Stella and Stan. “No shoes in the house. But you can stay with whatever you want.”
Stan chuckled softly and bent to take off his shoes. Stella stopped him with a gesture and took them off herself slowly, as if removing knight’s armor.
Desita poured rum. This time without ice. Just warm, sticky, with the strength of a last chance.
“To nights without consequences,” she raised her glass. “And to bodies that don’t lie.”
They drank. Music filled the pause between their breaths. Stella leaned back and closed her eyes. Her wrist slid over Desita’s thigh. Accidentally. Or not.
Desita didn’t flinch. She just raised her hand and brushed hair from Stella’s forehead.
“You’re like a poem that doesn’t want to be read aloud.”
Stella opened her eyes.
“And you’re like smoke — you stick without showing where you come from.”
Stan stood between them — with a glass in his hand and a question in his eyes. He was a man raised with boundaries, taught to choose. But here, no one wanted choice. Only touch.
Desita approached and placed her hands on his shoulders.
“Don’t think. Just be here.”
And then everything began. Slowly. With torn buttons. With trembling hot hands that don’t ask. With lips that find their way along necks, collarbones, those patches of skin usually left invisible.
Stella kissed Stan as if wanting to guide him through his own fear. Desita slipped behind him and brushed lips along his back.
Their senses blurred, their bodies were no longer separate stories but a shared melody. Three different notes woven into one piece they didn’t want to end.
“How many times…” Stella whispered.
“It doesn’t matter.” Desita finished.
And everything was touch. And rum. And breath, and sweat, and music. One night without tomorrow. Just “now.” Three souls dissolving into something more real than love.
Then they lay down. On sheets soaked with sweat and wind. Stan was between them, but no one was between anything anymore. There was silence. And the scent of skin. And a feeling that sometimes life doesn’t ask, it just happens.
Outside, Havana breathed. The city was not surprised. It had seen such nights many times. And it remembered them by name.

---

EPILOGUE WITH CAFFEINE
Morning came through the window like a shy lover. It didn’t slam the door, didn’t shout, just caressed the three bodies nestled on the sheets and woke them with its warmth. It was a soft and slightly sticky morning, one of those where the skin still carries the scent of another person.
The coffee was already simmering. Desita had made it in an old coffee maker tucked in the corner by a guitar and a broken cocktail shaker. It smelled of life. Of waking without guilt. Of a good memory that won’t haunt you.
After half an hour, the three sat on the small terrace overlooking an inner courtyard with a banana palm and a cat bathing in the sun. They smelled of Desita’s shampoo — Cuba Royal, with hints of bergamot, lemon, and mint.
No one hurried to speak. There was no need. The silence between them was no longer tense. It was… cozy.
Finally, Stella spoke first:
“I don’t know if it was right, but it was beautiful. So beautiful that… I don’t want to spoil it with questions.”
Stan nodded and sipped coffee. His eyes had cleared. He was no longer the man wondering whether to stay. He was the one who had been here — and knows.
“And we won’t spoil it,” Desita replied. “It will stay like a song you sing only once. Live. Without a recording.”
“How many times will I fly with you…” Stella whispered.
No es relevante — Desita smiled without turning around.
Then they laughed. Truly, like people who have already been close and don’t need to pretend.
An hour later, a taxi was taking them to the airport.
“Are we really not saying goodbye to the doctor?” Stella asked.
“He’ll survive,” Desita answered. “I’ll tell him you were so in love you did something silly and flew to a new one. He believes in love but hates drama. He’ll appreciate the gesture.”
She loaded their luggage. Hugged Stella first, then Stan. Not too long. But enough.
“Jamaica is nice, too. The rum is stronger, the music lazier. And love… maybe even more unexpected. Take care. But not too much.”
She turned and left before something could fall apart. Before it got heavy.
The plane took off. Without goodbye.
Only with that feeling that not everything beautiful needs a continuation.
Some things just happen, and they remain.

TO BE CONTINUED

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