When I first met el Gordo – antes de que lo llamara el Gordo, cuando todavía era Jorge – we spoke puro español. He had a mop of pelo negro, casi chino, a lion’s mane embracing a sweet, round cara de inocencia. Pero en sus ojos había algo más: cunning, perhaps, the slyness that emerges when he crouches to snap photos quick and unrepenting at a distance that the gringos documenting el folklor would never attempt. El jura que sólo estaba haciendo su trabajo: siendo el manager, checking up on los clientes to be sure they were getting good service, they were satisfied. The fact that I was una rubia, más guapa en ese entonces, y sola, studying Spanish at a table for two – such classic and easy prey, which makes me almost want to believe him, since he was never a gringa-hunter and abhors cliche – no tenía nada que ver, insiste. Nada que ver.
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