La Flaca whisks us off to the steamy nights of Havana, where the narrator meets an unforgettable woman he calls La Flaca – “the skinny one.” She is a dazzling mix of “coral negro de La Habana” and “tremendísima mulata,” only “cien libras de piel y hueso,” yet bursting with energy and charisma. By day she sleeps to trick her hunger, by night she slips into the tavern to dance, drink beer after beer, and somehow stay impossibly slim. Her face glows with “two suns” that speak without words, and one kiss from her seems worth absolutely anything.
Behind the catchy Latin–rock rhythm lies a playful tale of impossible longing. The singer is hopelessly smitten, soaking his sheets with memories of her fleeting affection and promising he would give up everything for just one more kiss. The repetition of “aunque sólo uno fuera” (even if it were only one) drives home his mix of passion and frustration: he loves a woman who will always remain just out of reach. La Flaca is a celebration of magnetic attraction, Caribbean atmosphere, and that delicious ache of wanting something you cannot quite have.