No I Wouldn't MILA KUNIS

This afternoon my co-workers and I delivered ten bronze planters to the penthouse apartment of a .0001% billionaire. The live-in super explained that the owner of the ultra-luxe duplex come to New York for football games played by his NFL team. Over forty workers were busy readying this palace for his weekend arrival. After Oskar and I humped the weighty planters across the terrace to their designated plots, we admired the vista of a misty Central Park with the sun struggling to burn off the clouds. "It's lunch time." Oskar tapped his watch. "Let's go." The elevator shut from 12-1 and neither of us wanted to be trapped in someone else's paradise for an hour without food. The super rode us down the freight elevator and we beat the meter maid to our pick-up. Oskar got behind the wheel and headed over to the Queensboro bridge. The foundry was in Greenpoint. "I like the girls in Manhattan." Oskar had been in NYC for fourteen years. His home town was Mexico City DF. His wife came from Colonia Maza, which neighbored his native Colonia Felipe Pescador. "You think they are beautiful?" I scanned the streets and sidewalks for a mujera bella. "There are thousands everywhere you turn." "Veridad?" I saw none and thought about how an actress Mila Kunis had been chosen sexiest woman in the world. She did nothing for me. Oskar pointed out a score of women on the way to the bridge. None of them met my approval. "Maybe you like boys?" "Vete ala verga." It was a harsh reaction, but the Mexicans are super macho. "I'm no maricon. I just don't like these women. They look like they haven't had sex in twenty years. Back in the 70s I stayed in Matzalan. On the first floor was a cantina, the second was a pool room, and the third was a bordello or a beso negro." "You know these words?" Oskar was making nice. He knew my reputation. "In the whorehouse was the most beautiful girl, but she only had one hand. She lost the other in a car accident. The pimps called her One-hand. Her real name was Maria. She came up to my room every night for two weeks. She eyes shone in the moonlight like pearls and her skin was smooth as a shaved peach." I hadn't thoguht about her for a long time. "She was better-looking than any of these dried-up putas of the Upper East Side." She had held my body like I was the son of Nanahuatl, who had escaped sacrifice to become the Aztec sun. "How long ago was that?" Oskar turned onto the bridge. There was very little traffic. "1975." She had smelled of other men until we showered together. "I was ten." "It was a good year." For Matzalan girls who lived up the stair with all that perfumed hair and it came undone, when I was 23. I opened the window and we cross the East River high in the sky. Oh, Maria, I miss you so.