Maruca took me to Father's place. We stood on the porch, staring around at the patio, at nothing waiting for The Man to open the door for us. I was in no mood to talk. Since I met Maruca four days ago, my pronounciation of his name got worse and worse.
I few days earlier, Maruca asked me to meet his family.
"Sure thing, bub," I replied.
"My name is Maruca. Now say it."
"Umm. . . Marh-a-uker."
As we waited in front of the door to Maruca's Father's house, I realized that Maruca had no other friends. Probably due to his constant sweating, even when the weather was brisk. His brown shoes and sweatshorts didn't help, as khaki shorts and red shoes were in season.
"What kind of Maruca are you!" I shouted, and he, caught between two responses, paused, then rang the doorbell a second time.
Sweatshorts! I love you.
Posted by: Joy at April 20, 2004 12:05 PM