The last time I was in Havana, a woman punched a man in the mouth. It was 3am, which is always prime time to be punched in the mouth by a woman if you are going to get punched in the mouth at all. Eleven o’clock feels too eager, too hopeful. Three in the morning? That's when accounts get settled.
This was 17 years ago. The man who was punched was me. I was 30. And the charming woman with the fist of fury was an ex I adored, but who would occasionally fly into a murderous rage. I fed off her storm because I was young enough to mistake turbulence for love. Her rage was as intoxicating as her beauty. Something must kill a man, right?
