February in the tropics and it is balmy. The nightly party that is downtown Key West is swept clean early everyday. Streets freshly watered, like hair slicked for chapel, and all visible trace of the night before is erased. But nothing can contain the smells rising like an insistent mist, mingling with the warming day. Other than a longhaired skateboarder lashed to a galloping multicolored dog, Duval Street was deserted when I went for coffee.

At the corner of Caroline Street I saw them. She was folded on the handlebars of his bicycle, she faced him, unsmiling. His arms were stiff arcs enveloping her as he steered the black cruiser. He was moving fast, and beaming, and she looked utterly relaxed, with an eery unnatural calm. He zipped from sidewalk to street, slinking around clumps of awakening pedestrians gathering out front of cafes sipping from lidded paper cups. Quite out of place in the steamy Keys he wore a dark wool suit, riding with his knees out wide, his black lace-up shoes like arrows on the pedals. She was in a dress of gray netting, spiky and see-through, her skin was pale, her eyes languorous, long kinky fair hair framed a serene face. She was a mermaid caught in her fisherman’s net. She was glorious, yet oddly glum, meanwhile her beau grinned. Their faces were close. They were not talking. Occasionally his head jutted forward and he kissed her. Their private world drew stares, and he nimbly maneuvered, at quite a clip, passing by bemused onlookers craning to take in the engrossed twosome. They might have been pedaling to their own wedding, as likely as being on their way home from a long night. There was something about their intensity, the cliche tableau. And then Elvis rode past on his scooter, today in his cherry red and sequin jumpsuit with lapels like fins. Tourists held up flashing cell phones, and the bicyclists were forgotten.

I would have clean forgotten about them too, but later that day I saw him again, riding his same black bicycle down Duval Street, now abuzz with cars cruising, and taxicabs. He no longer wore the dark wool suit but it was unmistakably him, for one thing he had on those shiny black leather lace ups, city shoes, memorable footwear in a beach town. He looked ecstatic, just as earlier when I had espied him, and sure enough he was not alone. Filling in the space between himself and the handlebars was a person. A female. Sort of folded, same as before. Yet something was different. I tried to get a decent glimpse without being too obvious. People thronged and I could only catch snippets. Something, however, was off. Gradually I realized she was not the same girl. This one a brunette. They kissed like lovers, until she caught me gaping, slack-jawed. The last thing I saw before reluctantly turning away was the picture of her joyous face.

I won’t tell.