Looking at the glass bottle from my position on the bed, the viewer can only see half of the bright yellow label, half of the attractive Latina women I know to be smiling up at me, half of the brand name bolding declaring, “ula” in red, block letters. This particular glass bottle, stoppered with a smooth, blonde, wooden cork belongs with its comprades in the downstairs kitchen cabinet, los amigos who sometimes go by the name “hot sauce” around town.
The afternoon sun, filtered by a multitude of green and yellow autumn leaves finds its way into the room, lighting up the side of the bottle facing me. It leaves a streak of skinny light down the glass bottle’s side, allowing a reflection of the outside world in, a minute tree, the asphalt on the road below, sandwiched between the tomato-red hot sauce.
The glass bottle, in its pristine condition, has sat on the vanity for weeks, like a queen in a game of chess, knowing her time to move is nigh, but allowing the player to think. Waiting to knock down the glass-bottled perfume acquaintances that surround her, that have forced her into a world of makeup, hair, fresh scents and glamour to which she has never belonged. Anticipating the day when she will once again be reacquainted with the rich smells of cooking, the sounds of grease sputtering when it gets hot. But above all, she awaits the day when she will be once again be reminded of the exquisite feeling of being tasted by a tongue.