“I’m not a taco stand,” Anna the New Mexican girl said, “and served a slice of pizza.”

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The jailor had kind of square-looking legs that were accentuated by the short legs of the trousers she wore flapping around her ankles. Some might consider the jailor an industrious woman as she went to work in her busybody way, though it made me think of Pop-Eye the sailor man as she wobbled by in her own comic strip, yet always on the alert to kick a kneejerk curveball out of her flaps to keep her surroundings in place.

She had been brought up the hard way. At an early age, she and her father who wore a tiny, black moustache had made a pact. She agreed to being to a good girl in return for a huge helping of crème brûlée, which they used to share for want of a tender heart. Even when obeisance turned to obesity, she continued eating ‘cause nothing pleased her more than her father’s approving eye. Eventually, she became her father’s eye, the I of his doing. Time had proved him right. He was proud! and the jailor shone in the light of his eye.

The story of the girl who became her father’s I could have resolved into a happyeverafter, but every story has an ending as reality knocks on the door by circumstance without ever letting us forget the shadow of our past. Oops! I believe I fell into the speculative phallacy here. I promise I will stick to the facts.

response (0) | filed under: short stories :: have another helping of crème brulée, honey