Disclaimer: I do not own James Bond.

Author's Note: A short piece I wrote to honour Lupe and Sanchez from Licence to Kill - Timothy Dalton's second and last Bond film.

My Man in Havana

My man in Havana was a nice guy.

He really was; a real gentleman. Tall with dark curly hair that framed a beautiful face which held the most heart-warming smile that made my heart sing. His eyes were always on me, always watching me, never looking at those other girls, never, his eyes always on me – just me. He always waited for me; every time my family came to visit he would sit outside our house, always knowing when I would be back in Havana.

My man took me out. He brought me strange beverages, taught me how to gamble: he was always there whispering little words of encouragement. I wasn't good at gambling, but he seemed to like it, liked my naivety. So he taught me how to distract the other players, and would spend the winnings on lavish dinners in the fancy hotels, all the while eyes always on me.

He gave me elegant dresses, long beautiful gowns that were worth thousands. He loved me, joked with me, ran along the streets with me in a half-spirited craze, was gentle with me and held me when I needed him most. My man was the perfect gentleman, the perfect partner, the perfect lover.

And he was my man in Havana.

Just mine.

But at some point he stopped, stopped being my man from Havana. He started to change, grow dark, the light vanishing as the sun sets into the gathering night sky each day. He became my husband: a distant and angry man. My man in Havana died, in his place someone alien.

Because as Havana became the Bahamas.

As his eyes focused only on his work.

He stopped being such a nice guy.


Author's Note: Please share your thoughts.