The zoot-suits were long gone, donated to Saint Vincent's poor. Today Uncle Zoot wore his favorite shirt. Tropical cotton dyed cinnamon brown and emblazoned with hibiscus blooms. He loved flowers. Especially the excitable one belonging to his woman.
He sat on a park bench with a small bag of Hershey's Kisses. They were for her, but he couldn't help pinching one. He sucked the little bit of chocolate, savoring until it was gone, and his rotten molar began to hammer in protest. Pleasure and pain.
Soledad was just that. Pleasure and pain.
Physically she resembled a praying mantis. Wizened at forty years, her only aspect of beauty to him was her wavy gray hair as it cascaded down the length of her tawny back like a mountain waterfall. Each morning she rolled it into a bun and attended Mass. Novenas at night. Candles and pleas to the Blessed Virgin. A sweat-soaked scapular between her breasts.
So when she learned that her lover, sweet Hermano Lopez, had become a flesh-merchant, running a bevy of teenage girls from the sticks, Soledad ordered him to go to Holy Confession and seek penance,
Uncle Zoot loved his girls as long as they remained polite, demure and sunny-faced. Whenever one began to spoil like fallen fruit too long on the ground, he sadly dismissed her. Hardcore pimps thought he was a soft-hearted sap. Though his skin felt clammy whenever he entered a church, he stayed long enough for a prayer to Saint Dismas.
Soledad was astounded. He seemed to sleep with a clear conscience.
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