MY MUFFIN HASN'T HAD A CHERRY SINCE 1939.
WHO: Martín y Mister Bonafey~!
WHEN: One blistering Friday afternoon... (June 18th)
WHERE: Outside a coffee shop of some sorts near LU.
WHAT: You never forget the pretty ones. Or dat ass.
RATING: C for caca mouths.
It was hot. Shorts-wearing, sunburnt-skin, melted popsicle hot, the pavement glimmering with heat waves and the sky that particularly sharp, eye-raping shade of blue. And as such, it was far too hot to drink "regular" coffee (really, as if anyone ever did in this day and age, who are you kiddin-). Instead everyone wandered about sluggishly, clinging to their slushy counterparts and iced teas, slinking into the shadows and pushing overlarge sunglasses up the sweaty bridges of their noses.
Martín, however, had gone into the shop for something that had made the slack-jawed employees jaws hang a little more loosely: hot water. For his mate, he had explained in careful English, narrow brows creeping toward his hairline. Eyes flicked to the thermostat and the people melting outside, far far away from the delicious air-conditioning. Ma-tay, and gave both his gourd and thermos an obnoxious wiggle in the barista's face. Somehow they got the picture without his poorly worded threats. Those were just a bonus.
Now he balanced himself precariously on a chair outside, sporting shorts of his own and trying not to burn the back of his thigh on the lacquered wood. One bare foot on the table, its flip-flop thrown unceremoniously beside it, Martín idly examined his toenails. It was then a high, needling voice cut into his ear again. Peace be damned! He winced and had to resist the bodily urge to fling his mobile as hard as he could at the floor.
"¡Che! ¡¿Qué concha más quieres?! ¡Uf!" It was only his tía Catarina after all. The old bitch. Unfortunately there wasn't much of a time difference between here and Argentina, but somehow he didn't think she would care: she had called non-stop since he got off the plane, and that had been weeks ago.
Day in, day out: Did you find my daughter yet? Did you?!
No, he hadn't, but when he did, the first thing he would do was wrap his hands around Valentina's skinny little neck for dropping off the face of the earth... He slurped at the bombilla angrily, a line of sweat running down his cheek, but neither yerba mate nor a pair of girls (twins, maybe?) in hot pants sauntering down the street could quell his wrath.
"¡Ya comprobado la escuela, bagaya, el hijo de puta no estaba allí!"
1 Hey! What the fuck more do you want? Ugh!
2 I already checked the school, you dog, the son of a bitch wasn't there!