Page 73 of Only Lovers in the Building

Grayson Mills welcomes acclaimed literary translator, Benito Romero.

GM: In 2001, your father, Cuban poet Sabato Romero, delivered the inaugural poem. In his memoir, the president recounts advocating for a popular country musician. “Anyone but a poet!” the president writes. It was at the first lady’s insistence that he got the call.

BR: As I understand it, she’s a champion of literacy.

GM: The president held out for as long as he could before relenting. Because of this, your father didn’t have much time to prepare. Yet he rose to the occasion and cemented his legacy. What will yours be?

BR: I don’t think about legacies. Not my father’s and certainly not my own. That’s a very calculated way to live. I seek meaning in the work at hand. When it’s over, I move on to the next thing.

GM: Your literary translations are greeted with much acclaim, which is unusual. What’s your methodology?

Surely, such a dry topic of legacies and methodologies shouldn’t get Lily so wet, but it did. She reached for one more thing she’d stuffed in the back of her nightstand drawer. The miniature vibrator she never traveled without. Sleek, discreet, it was the size of her palm and generally got the job done. Impatient, she switched it on and slipped it between her legs. Breath shallow, body humming, she heard Ben’s voice still pouring out of her headphones, now at the foot of the bed.

“I don’t rush it,” he said. “I linger on every word. When it’s right, I know it’s right. And it’s the best feeling in the world.”

Chapter Twenty

They were bickering when they arrived at the Brickell recording studio and kept on bickering as they showed ID to the security guard.

“We should have worked on a script.”

“Why do we need a script to talk to each other?”

“It’s not just a casual chat. They’ll expect us to spark!”

“We’re sparking now!”

They were handed stickers marked Visitor. She stuck one to her blouse, and he stuck the other to his T-shirt. The guard placed a call to the show’s producer.

“They’ll expect banter.”

“Who’s better at banter than us?”

“The best banter is scripted.”

“You mean stilted.”

“Don’t tell me what I mean.”

“Why are you so worked up? We’re going to be fine.”

“What if my mind goes blank?”

“When does that ever happen?”

A man’s voice cut through the bickering. “Hello. I’m Dave Smith. Welcome to the studio!” Dave Smith looked as easygoing as his name suggested, in a navy polo shirt and khaki pants. “Hope you parked across the street. It’s cheaper.”

“Thanks for the tip,” Ben said.

“Lily, nice meeting you in person,” Dave said. “You’re funny online.”

“Yes, but that’s not the same—”

Ben closed a hand around her wrist, instantly soothing her. “She’s funny in real life, too.”

“Great,” Dave said. “That’s what we want to hear.”

Ben had saved her from drowning in her own insecurity right in front of the producer who was counting on them to deliver, but she didn’t have to like it. Lily was frazzled. She hadn’t slept well the night before. Ben was his same old self when he’d knocked on her door this morning with coffee in a travel mug. “Ready?” he’d asked with a yawn. Her answer was no. On the drive over, she’d wondered how he could be so calm only to realize that a lifetime of creative risks had built his confidence. Lily had no such experience to draw from. She could negotiate a contract or lead a meeting with no problem. She had degrees and certifications to prove her competence. But what qualified her to host a podcast?