I’m Their Friend

I am at the sandwich stand waiting for my order to be prepared. There are three women behind the counter. The large, shapely one with the gold tooth and tattoos, who on a previous occasion had asked me to smile for her as she gyrated her hips to the Jamaican Dancehall music playing on the radio,  smiles and asks if I am having any meat, cheese, or sauce. I thank her, but decline.

One of the other women, from the background, asks:

“Excuse me, are you on a special diet?”

“No, I just don’t feel like eating meat today.”

“Well, you look good anyway.”

I smile with her, but the one with the gold tooth reprimands her,

“STOP SMILING AT MY FRIEND!”

Taking my sandwich, I thank them and sneak away as they bicker over whose friend I am…

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