Telefunky
I lie curled up in a towel, drowsy on mama’s lap. My green psychedelic-print bikini is wet and cold, but mama is warm. She runs her fingers through my damp hair, teasing out snarls with one hand. The other hand holds a fan of cards. Bella, two years younger, is curled up in her own hotel towel asleep on a nearby lounge chair, shaded by a big blue parasol.
Rosemary spreads a set of three threes and a set of three eights on the table, and before she discards, my mother feigns a scowl and asks, “Terremoto?”
Rosemary discards an ace with a dramatic flip and responds with a sly smile, “No, Clara, todavía, no.” Not yet, she answers.
The water shimmers on the pool, a gathering place for ex-pat families in Santo Domingo. We joined friends for lunch there so frequently that the place is as imprinted on my memory as our house with the enormous red-tiled patio or the beach with the crystal-clear water and the field of red and black sea urchins lazing beneath the gentle surf.
In Telefunky, an ace is worth 25 points. If you can’t use it, you’re best off discarding it so
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