The Sunday stranger

Our plan was to buy burritos for my mom and dad at what was apparently the best burrito place in San Francisco, El Farolito.

El Farolito is a small hole-in-the-wall place and a lot of homeless people hang around outside, probably because of the amazing smell of meat and warm flour tortillas filling the air.

My grandma and I were right outside of the open doorway when a sleepy looking man wobbled up to us, the sour smell of drunkenness on his breath. He is standing really close to us, I thought.

We waited for him to talk.

Ella es muy bonita, he slurred. Te daré un millión de dolares por ella.

My grandma lowered her eyebrows and looked hard at the grimy sidewalk.

Ella no esta por venta, she paused, Señor. Yup, that’s my grandma, polite to everyone.

I raised my hands to my bare shoulders to try and cover them. I suddenly felt very exposed. My grandma grabbed me by the elbow and ushered me inside.

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