“No,” I chuckled nervously. “I wasn’t going to say that. I didn’t think people collected them. Usually men like cars, shoes, liquor, maybe even whisky, but this is different to me. So, you smoke heavily?” I asked, turning to face him.
He looked so relaxed and at ease.
“I do but not heavily,” he said, moving past me to run his fingers along one of the humidors. “I’ve been really into cigars for the past few years. There’s something meditative about it, you know? The ritual, the flavor, the experience.” His eyes lit up with genuine passion as he opened one of the glass cases. “My grandfather smoked cigars. He was from Cuba originally, and when I was a kid, I remember the smell of them in his study. Ihated it then. I thought that shit was gross.” He laughed softly, giving me a glimpse of the dimple peeking through his right cheek. I hadn’t noticed it before. “But after he died, I found myself missing that smell…missing him. So, I tried one, and…I don’t know. I guess it connected me to him somehow.”
I felt my chest tighten at the vulnerability in his voice. “That’s beautiful,” I muttered softly.
“He was a good man,” Syx continued, his fingers trailing over the cigars now. “Taught me a lot about patience, about taking time to appreciate things. He used to say that Americans were always rushing…rushing to eat, rushing to work, rushing through life. He’d sit in his chair with a cigar for an hour, just thinking, and talking shit.” He glanced over at me. “I think that’s what drew me to this work too, in a way. Helping people slow down, pay attention to their bodies and really feel things instead of just going through the motions.”
Every time I gazed into his eyes, they were intense and heavy like a burning fire. So, I looked away, feeling timid under his gaze.
“So, you’re Cuban?” I probed around in his business, keeping the subject neutral.
“Nah, at least I don’t consider myself Cuban. I’m Cuban descent, but I don’t consider myself Cuban-American.”
“When did your family move to the states?”
“I was born there. My mom wanted to pursue her career in criminal justice,” he informed me. “That’s where she met my father.”
I pursed my lips, with a slow head nod. “I hear a southern accent too.” I teased him.
He blushed just a tad, biting his lip in a sexy manner. “I’m from Memphis.”
My eyes grew wide in shock, followed by a low gasp. “That’s where I’m from too. Shit, that’s where I live.”
“I’m really from Olive Branch though, I just used to come to south Memphis to kick shit with my cousins.”
“Oh really, what part?”
“Orange Mound.”
I clicked my tongue against my teeth. “Orange Mound is not South Memphis,” I laughed.
He put his hands up in mock surrender. “Tell me somethin’ I’on know then.”
“Do you visit often?”
“My mom lives there, so of course, but it’s majority seasonal, and she ain’t been too happy ‘bout that,” he expressed.
“Is this your permanent home? I guess you could say the water is serene, so I wouldn’t blame you for wanting to stay. I’d never wanted to leave.”
“I don’t know,” he laughed, making me laugh too. There was a contagious flare in it. “It’s so damn peaceful and I own it, so it’s mine. I don’t have to worry about motherfucka’s disturbing my peace. I can go on and on.”
“I understand, believe me, I do. I definitely been going through the motions,” I admitted.
Syx nodded, understanding in his dark eyes. “Most people are. It’s easier than being present, especially when being present means feeling things that are uncomfortable or painful. It took me a while to learn that and when I did, I released so much dead weight.”
“Is that why you’re always here?” I asked. “On the island, I mean. To slow down?”
“Partially,” he answered. “I used to practice in Miami, had an office and saw clients there. But it was exhausting, the noise, constant stimulation. Then I realized telling people to be present and mindful while I was completely burnt out.” He selected a cigar, examining it thoughtfully. “So, I bought this place fiveyears ago. Now I only take a few clients a year, and I can give them my full attention.”
I nodded. “Quality over quantity.”
“You get it,” he nodded too.
“You ever thought about opening a cigar lounge?” I prompted, growing curious now.
“That’s my next dream,” Syx said, his face lightening up again. “Actually, I’ve been thinking about opening a cigar lounge real heavy, besides making it a hobby to collect them. I’ve been looking into land and a perfect spot to put it. It’s difficult than I thought because I’m picky as hell.”
