I’m in a coffee joint called Chochi’s for reasons surpassing my understanding. Okay, I got a coupon in the mail for a half-price latte.
So shoot me.
I’m surrounded by well-endowed Latino girls talking a mile-a-minute eating donuts like Bon-Bons. Squashed in jeans easily mistaken for sausage skins, rolls of fat hanging from their middles, reminding me of hippos you’d see on an African safari.
They’re talking about men. “My Pedro, he no like when I come here. He worry I leave him for Eduardo,” who winks from across the room while sweeping the floor.
They giggle like the mice in Cinderella at Pedro’s expense, wiping their mouths and chins with nails the length of Aruba. As I sit sipping my, I think Chochi can improve on his latte experience, I wonder what it must be like being 30, giddy, well-fed, well-laid, with enough blubber to rival Moby Dick.
Uh-oh, I feel an essay coming on.