deyro
Deyro Hurtado. Dead now. He would take me to the waffle house by the airport just about every weekend. That man had swagger- he was all gold chains, silk shirts, white dress shoes. He had a curly grey mullet and a handlebar mustache, a thick Columbian accent, an intimidating way about him that sat in his eyes. With eleven year old me, he was big gold capped toothy smiles, hot sticky pancake breakfasts, he danced Cumbia on the way in to the restaurant, Merengue next to the table. High as fuck.
“Chica Bonita- what looks good- tell me everything that looks good.”