7 Pages

Goddess and the Garca

I sit down to wait and a cold mist envelops the high-altitude pass. I can’t see anything and I’m cursing Walter because it’s grown cold and I’ve grown impatient. At last the mist parts like a curtain to exhibit Walter with his face the shade of a blazing tomato. He takes one look at his burden, the waiting backpack, and drops to my feet emasculated.