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SUNDAY BREAKFAST

Andrew McIntyre

    We’re sitting in the cafe, the main one where everyone goes. We’ve got our big glasses of coffee, and I’m eating eggs and tortillas, and some jalapeños . The American’s there, smoking a cigarette, and Gaz, and two women the American knows. He’s going on in English so they can’t understand, about how he likes their papayas, their melons, and everybody’s laughing, the girls too even though they can’t understand. They’re big, sure, big round breasts just like fruit, and I’m glancing at them. The girls know, and they catch me, and I look sheepish, but we all laugh. They don’t mind. Then we’re not saying much, the food’s too good. I suck on my cigarette and eat some more of the eggs. I take a mouthful of the coffee, the wonderful coffee they make, knowing it grows in the area, just outside of the town. You can see it wild where it’s escaped from the plantations. Everything’s quiet and peaceful, and we’re thinking, It’s Sunday, and how good it all is. Just then there’s a lot of noise outside. People are running down the street because something’s happened. The American grins, stubbing out his cigarette. He wanders away. We don’t pay any attention. I’m finishing my eggs, and Gaz is rambling on about bulls, and regulations to do with exporting bull semen across the frontier. The girls are giggling, and I’m still looking at their fruit. The American returns, They’ve just shot the priest. What? we all say at once. No way, I say. Yeah, he says, Someone got up in the middle of the sermon with a gun and shot the priest. Well, that’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard, and I can’t eat any more because I’m laughing so much. And the girls are laughing too but they’re concerned, they’re saying, Poor little priest, how could they do that to the poor little priest? Is he dead? I ask finally. The American looks disgusted, No, the guy missed, six shots point blank range and he missed. Outside the cafe, a crowd of people are walking down the street yelling, beating up this one guy, the guy who tried to shoot the priest. He’s in a suit but he’s bloody, and his suit is crumpled and torn. He’s shouting something but it’s unintelligible. A big peasant knocks him down from behind. Someone says they’re going to lynch him, but the police arrive and start pushing the crowd around with their sticks. They lift the guy up and bundle him into a police car. Why’d he do it? I ask. Why does anyone do anything? replied the American, and Gaz just mumbles, Pity they don’t do it more bloody often. Then everyone starts to calm down. I start to eat my eggs again but they’re cold by now, so I go back to watching the girls’ fruit, and I light another cigarette. Then the American gets up and says he’s got to go. The girls follow him and they all file out of the cafe. I watch them as they leave, the heavy ripe thighs of the girls, a little overweight but nice. Nice and ripe. And I’m thinking, It’s a pity they had to go so soon.



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