Llorona

My latest entry in Flash! Friday with the prompt to incorporate “an unpaid bill” and the following picture:

Pickin’ strawberries or as the boys called it, la fruta del diablo, in the searing desert for 15 hours made your cotton throat gravitate to a Corona.

Just as I submerged a lime in the liquid gold, the small window in the living room smashed and a brick landed on the wooden floor.

Wrapped around the brick was a paper with a slew of English words I didn’t know, except for three: “dirty spic” and “alien.” Because I heard those on the way to the fields.

I just wanted to tell them my name was Javier and I was fucking poor.

Pinche pendejos, I muttered and sat down on the couch.

Sometimes, like now, leaving behind Liz and nascent Angelica didn’t feel so goddamn noble.

With that day’s toils, I fattened an envelope, addressed to our mud-brick casa in the small borough, Sánchez Taboada, a few miles from the border. Licked it with my lime tongue.

And then I sipped.