Page 26 - GRANADA
P. 26

“Consuela,” I corrected, but she continued without missing a beat.“What I want to know is why it has liquid in it,” she stated, rolling her eyes and clattering her manicured nails against the counter top.
“Ma’am, when something is frozen, like your beverage, and it sits in a location that is in the nineties-” I said, noting the thermometer on the window, “it tends to, well, melt.”
Sharon, or maybe it was Barbara, did not accept my response and left in a huff, claiming that she would be writing a stern Yelp review when she got home. I believed her, of course, since she’d written at least one per week for the last eight months or so. She even advised, on more than one occasion, that I use a different name on my badge, so as to not look “like an illegal.” It was unclear why she didn’t just go to the Circle K across the street but I hadn’t the time to ask.
“Aye, chihuahua, what’s her problem?” asked the now sole-customer in the store. Her name was Alejandra. She worked in the tattoo shop next door.
“Her slushie melted,” I said, in a whine that echoed Barbara’s. Onto the counter she set her usual, an energy drink and a honey bun, and I was already grabbing her a pack of menthols and two of the scratchers with the luchadores on them.
“It’s gonna be $13.78, please.”

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