She's my girl. Skin the sun. Sea salt, the foam of the waves. With an aura that distinguishes it especially from other people. In a moment, forgetting everything else that was around in my head said, pounding the table with a smile "another beer again, Ronda" (another round of beers, Ronda). Ronda was Irish, red hair and big. With a few small eyes, hidden in a dark green iris and pupil tiny, round and black. A black so deep it seems to bare my entire existence at the same time asking me while I served, "with foam or without foam?". Obviously with little foam! Obviously with the big legs open. And obviously hitting the table. The other member of the bar on the road is a man who does not know his name, but does know the name of Ronda. Not if you're a regular customer. It has a peaked cap, blue, stained with grease. The beard of a few days, a hoarse voice fills with the smell of whiskey all over the place, always sounding fresh awake and waiting for him outside his truck. A coffee and a booster and I told the truck affectionately as his large Irish redhead. But, like all pilgrims absent, unfaithful to the customs of the Puritans payments, change your truck's red-haired Irish-84, Nuevitas tires, for a true Irish Round, which is once a week, takes a once week fights, slaps her and reconciled once a week. Or maybe a little more spacing. (At this point I realized I was a regular customer of the place) The thing is that our friend today told round the ear (but I listen because, besides being attentive, his voice echoes in the tables closest) not going to see anymore. Never Again? Never again. Went to Brazil, a division of a new cola that had left, whose label was red with a diagonal blue line and said blank, with a black border and a very striking typography "Win-Cola." Ronda did not accept. Repeated with his bad accent over and over again "What do you anymore?". And slapping the largest rate of coffee and poured it on his brown pants ironed. Ronie (apparently this was his name, or nickname) (I could decipher the cries desperately furious round) got up and looked at his coffee-stained pants, but would not say who had pissed on it. A trucker mustache, sideburns and big hair, brown everything, pissing on it. A tiger roaring in the most harrowing can be spotted in the Round dark green eyes. The look in your eyes, displaying his cold sharp blade well. Cross-cutting and eyeball slowly, enjoying the course suffering Round was not really right now. After the ceremony, Ronie pulled out some crumpled bills from his pocket and smeared it on the table with some coffee. Picked up his cigar and ran the last look at a round confused, which was already heading off the blow that he would pull Ronie. A defeated look that spoke volumes to Ronda. It was the course of things. It was the direction of the truck that led to Ronnie, arrows, signs and bars on the road. And nothing could be done. Every decision was taken coldly without thinking twice, without deciphering its potential consequences. Only remembered later in a cheap motel at night, watching the ceiling wet, dimly lit by a lapara in the light table. No pictures, no I remember nothing. Not even a proper name. Ronie, Fish, Albert or whoever.
- Keep the change, "he said as he opened the door. A Round
not stripped the sun, or foams, or an aura, or anything. Destroyed, looked at me, the customer was closest. Uncomfortable, hurried up the beer and let some bills on the table. I walked out the glass door, I walked the dirt road and just went through the truck Ronie, which mirror betrayed the first of many Irish masturbating thinking about her fat.
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