LISTEN:
Glancing through the glass window, she tucked an unruly lock of her dark, shoulder-length hair behind one ear. She leaned inside the office door, her dark eyes scanning the room; her knee-length skirt covered substantial hips.
“Marisol?” she asked, hoping my co-worker was nearby. My eyes darted down the piece of paper on my desk, hoping to fix on a useful phrase. “Marisol não está aqui,” I told her. Marisol isn’t here. I read with care from my “cheat sheet,” the unfamiliar syllables of Portuguese tumbling awkwardly off my tongue. The woman nodded, drew her head back and strode off.
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Marjorie Turner Hollman 