Every Friday the office smelled of jalapeño’s, onions and cilantro. 

Emilio always came to my desk with a smile, a kiss and a batch of receipts. He hit on me in the strangest of ways but at the time I didn’t know that’s what it was called. Not until years had passed did I realize he had a thing for me.

A woman’s neck is a sacred place, one of the few places no one before him had placed their lips. In shock I said nothing thinking it must have been the allure of my cheap vanilla lotion. 

I went home wondering if he was hispanic or asian. He reminded me very much of Jackie Chan. I knew I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone and though the kiss revealed that I found pleasure in being kissed on my neck I also made sure he’d never again get the opportunity. I wasn’t sure if the pleasure came from being kissed on the neck or from the idea that he wasn’t supposed to kiss me at all.

That Friday he took post at the grill and I took to making the salsa. No one wanted to make tortillas from scratch so one of the guys found a place. Someone played mariachi music and everyone proceeded to eat and dance at the same time.

They felt like the safest group of men I’d ever been around. Except for Emilio they all seemed like big brothers – loving, sweet, kind and somewhat protective.

For so many reasons I can look back and think it may have been the best job ever, even if I’d never made the salsa.