Vivianne sets plates and a dish which Carlos distastes. The salt is white picket fenced and tempting like the grass which shall not be passed. Carlos is the tawny wildebeest. He wheezes and snorts. “Do you say, Plum,” he begins, “that I won’t take your queen in three easy moves?” Steam rises from his head from hard labor. His blackened snout is coated in musty drool.
“You couldn’t find her if she were a glam drag queen at a pope convene.” Vivianne had dried mucus on her fingertips.
Carlos, advancing his age and sense,” Your smell gives you away. I don’t need to see. I don’t need to hear. I will find your queen snuggled between bishops and pop her out!” Outside, the desert was mountainous and engorged from rains. Inside, Vivianne was now older, placing a stale record sleeve beneath her nose to breath in memories.
The mexican man was seven foot tall now as he dragged his cowboy boots lightly over the plush rust colored carpet. From under his wide brimmed hat, the big man caught a hug off-guard. Plastic pear wood veneer peeled at the corners of the hi-fi cabinet as vinyl Eydie Gorme snapped and popped and hissed. The thick flacotti rug was white and groomed, tempting her into the cavernous space between cinder block walls of Juarez squatters, between life and death.