Casa Presa
Daniel Vazquez
"We don't care about your boyfriends band!" cried he, in a fit of jealousy. Why hadn't he thought of a name like that for his band? Why didn't his band have pretty girls playing horns? Forlorn did he wallow in his ineptitude, more aware of his musical and cultural failures now than ever, in face of these young men's cheerful excellence. He looked at his drawing implements, now slighting them, "trifles! Hmph!" He looked at his musical instruments and in a sudden rage threw them in a pile. "DRAT, FIDDLE STICKS, SCHEISS MEISTER, SHUCKS!" She looked at him with indifference and snubbed him with the slightest gesture: her nose tilted upward and her lip curled. "Please open the door. I want to leave." He acceeded, ashamed...
"We don't care about your boyfriends band!" cried he, in a fit of jealousy. Why hadn't he thought of a name like that for his band? Why didn't his band have pretty girls playing horns? Forlorn did he wallow in his ineptitude, more aware of his musical and cultural failures now than ever, in face of these young men's cheerful excellence. He looked at his drawing implements, now slighting them, "trifles! Hmph!" He looked at his musical instruments and in a sudden rage threw them in a pile. "DRAT, FIDDLE STICKS, SCHEISS MEISTER, SHUCKS!" She looked at him with indifference and snubbed him with the slightest gesture: her nose tilted upward and her lip curled. "Please open the door. I want to leave." He acceeded, ashamed...