The linen pants suit doesn’t stand a chance. It seems to melt before my eyes, taking the person inside with it.
That person is Juanita Sanchez, now Juanita Martinez, who’s sitting across from me at my kitchen table, inside my trailer, crossing and uncrossing her ridiculously long legs for the past ten minutes. She’s been flashing me the red bottoms of her classic beige pumps that should’ve screamed matronly and mundane, but instead whisper poise and prosperity.
A slight shine has appeared on her skin despite the constant patting of her face with the McDonalds napkin I’ve handed her ten minutes ago. I could’ve told her that a linen cotton blend pant suit wasn’t trailer-trash approved.
But I kind of like seeing her sweat.
She eyes my jean cut-offs and navy blue tank top with a little les
