It sounds like Tijuana in here. The air is thick and spicy.

An obese woman and her 25-years-but-out-on-early-release-for-good-behavior boyfriend are dancing.

They’re not just dancing. They’re writing a poem about long-suffering hope fulfilled and the joy that comes with it.

I bet 10 cigarettes and your shift in the laundry room that this is the first time he’s smiled like this since the peyote joyride in that hot-wired Camaro.

She’s faking the smile that she wore with all her heart only five minutes ago. Before they showed up.

They’re the only white people in here besides me. They’ve stumbled in here by accident, much too drunk to find somewhere else to go. Their inebriated lurch to the table next to me is quite the antithesis to the graceful movement of our dance floor lovebirds.

Abercrombie points to “two of these burritos. Pork, alright? You understand me…? Right? None of that beef crap. And one of these chili relleno things, whateverthehell that is.”

His buddy chuckles in approval and tosses up the sloppiest high five I’ve seen on this side of the Hudson. Abercrombie’s girlfriend is inspecting her manicure until:

“Ohmygod, Bobby! If I ever get that fat, I’ll…I’ll, uh (hiccup)…you better not ever let me get that fat!”

And the ridicule begins. They laugh and point. More high-fives between the “bro’s” in celebration of some totally-awesome fat joke. I could say something, but it wouldn’t matter.

Fifteen feet away, my overweight friend and Jailhouse Ink continue cutting up a rug. They can really move. Dancing was conceived by people like this. Yet I wish she was enjoying it more. She’ll never enjoy it again.

See, I understand why she’s faking her smile. The same reason she’s attempting to dance in a way that keeps her man’s back toward the hecklers as much as possible. She knows it’s only a matter of time until the bliss of this long-awaited moment with papi is broken when he notices them. And if she stops smiling, well…he’d notice.

She’s right. I know this man. I know that all those years of good behavior were harder for him than serving out the rest of his sentence in yard duty under the summer sun and through the winter’s bitter cold.

It’s difficult for a beast of this nature to tame himself.

There wasn’t much provocation from other inmates to deal with. They knew what he was in for. They saw the tempest in his eyes. Whatever clout they might gain from challenging him would surely not be worth the consequence of unchaining such savagery.

Yet despite the lack of deliberate confrontation, he toiled to contain himself nonetheless. The klutz in the chow line never knew what sort of restraint was exercised. Nor did the shower boys understand the tremendous feat of self-control they witnessed when he caught their lusting eyes.

She’s holding her smile. And she’s praying silently the same as me. “Please, God…don’t let this…”

And then it happens. Just as the song comes to its climactic and abrupt end, he spots the sneering table to my right. And in the silence thereafter, he catches Abercombie’s three-word blasphemy.

“What a pig.”

Our silent prayers go unanswered. The beast has been awakened.

Abercrombie has no idea what’s about to happen. All the alcohol has brought his trust fund arrogance to a delusional height. He doesn’t realize that the Majesty of Rikers Island isn’t like any other pissant that his daddy’s lawyers or his mother’s checkbook have delivered him from in the past. Ego drunkenly reckless, he just can’t imagine that anyone in a place like this would ever think to serve him the feral judgment that is now upon him.

A few feet to my left, the lovers part. He walks with profound purpose to my table and grabs the Corona bottle I’ve just emptied out. Looking over his shoulder, his eyes say goodbye to the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. The buck-sixty she put on while he was away means nothing to him; she’s the only woman amazing enough to wait so long, so faithfully, for someone like him.

He looks at me briefly and says, “Take care of her, hermano.” I can tell that he’s just disposed of everything he learned about in that Book he spent so much time with over these past years. I nod respectfully. I could say something, but it wouldn’t matter.

He spits. Holding it by the neck, smashes the bottle against the edge of the table. And I watch the most powerful stride I’ve ever seen as he steps forward into the rest of his life.

Abercrombie’s last words are smug and insignificant. “Dude, why don’t you just…”

I am now a witness. I witness a long-suffering hope unfulfilled and the sorrow that comes with it.