He had just read in the wall post that she is “In a relationship” and, with that, his night and the next days, weeks, and months were ruined. He went for a walk digesting this information until he ended up in front of a convenience store. He went inside and stood in front of the liquor section, undecided whether to drink brandy, gin, rum, vodka or tequila. After minutes of indecision, he decided on gin chased down with orange-flavored Minute Maid (a mixture that he would be drinking for the next three weeks, consuming maybe his weight in orange juice and gin). While waiting in line at the checkout counter, he couldn’t help overhear the woman in front telling her kids that the condoms were not candies (“but it says cherry flavor,” the kids protested). Then he remembered a line delivered by a character in a movie about condoms being the glass slippers of this generation. As he walked back home, the daylight was receding into darkness; the sky taking the orange and red hues of a popsicle and from the mosques located a few blocks away were amplified reverberations as the worshippers prepared for their evening prayers.
Cut Here
Fiction by Romel Villaflor | October 23, 2011