Down the road to the west where sunsets sizzle like a ball of melting butter, a shadow jogged closer in little flicks of black. Yolanda picked through the basket of jalapeños with fingers fat and stiff as sausages. She selected one and stabbed it with a threaded needle, drawing it up into a ristra.

The black specter bobbled in the distance. She leaned forward in her chair and squinted into the sun, picked up the bottle of beer beside her and sucked it dry. She rubbed the water rings left on the table then wiped it on her neck. The wetness felt good. She rolled the bottle against breasts that crested above the curve of her blouse.