The Tempter’s Dove
Chula Cobo arrived in Tampa on a warm winter day. She carried one old bag made of Llama skin. She was different; like a snow drift in the desert, and she came unexpectedly.( Read more...Collapse )
Every Saturday night, a fat dark haired man entered the store to buy a cigar. He drove a shiny black car and smelled of evil.
His eyes were faithless holes of trouble and there was no redemption in his body.
Chula had seen thieves in the mountains of Peru. Soulless cut throats out for misery; they stalked in the dark and lived short lives.
He came in late one night smelling of liquor. The owner had left Chula by herself for the day.
“Are you afraid?” he asked, slithering along the counter and lighting a cigar. The corners of his mouth curled as he smiled behind the green smoke.
Chula closed the register drawer and backed away.
She was not afraid.
“Getting dark out isn’t it?” he said, turning his head and looking out the window. Chula looked down at his waist and saw the handle of a pistol.
“Cierren la puerta,” slurred the bloated man.
She moved like an expert fawn; locking the door and turning the sign to “closed.”
He was dizzy from the scotch roiling through his veins. He sucked on the end of his cigar and studied her; rocking in his silk slippers.
He tapped the handle of the pistol with the tips of his fingers and moved toward her.
Chula stood and listened to her heart; he was afraid beneath his frock; a village dog that stole scraps from the weak.
He felt the calm of her cool breath on his chest; he smelled its clover as he touched her breasts. Her eyes locked on his as he struggled with the waistband of her slacks; forcing a hand between her legs.
She was outside of herself as his fingers entered her.
“You like the lord?” he asked, and he leaned in and kissed her, but Chula was not there. She was watching from above, detached from resistance.
He ripped his hand from her.
“You’re cold as a witch,” he said; his face a strange contort, and Chula returned.
She moved toward the door and unlocked it. Chula turned the sign around and raised the shade. She walked back toward him, he shivered and swallowed a burp. He coughed once as the door slammed behind him, out into the night he went. He vomited. She listened to the car start; the headlights glared at her and she smiled.
He was a grain of sand beneath her feet.
Chula was a dove for the devil, the absolute perfect flower.
Evil had come to Tampa Bay.
current mood: awake