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  • All the white girls in Trader Joe's noticed. They were white girls because the only other-looking shoppers seemed to be European. Really, we couldn't tell each other apart. So, again, all the white girls noticed these three young men speaking excitedly, colloquially, loudly private, in Spanish, but it didn't sound like Mexico Spanish. Maybe Argentina where it is widely known that skinny t-shirts and thick biceps are requisite.

    All the white girls in Trader Joe's were middle aged, or, like me, indeterminately older. We could smell them. The Argentinians. We heard their mother tongue, or maybe we just felt them with our tongues across the heaps of cucumbers and avocados. The one with the grey shirt and Border Collie blue eyes made a joke and touched a loose beefsteak tomato. They didn't let on that they knew were were seeing them, but they knew. How could they not? But we, the girls, all silently traded knowing eyes. We were already standing barefoot in our boyfriend shirts telling them to leave before the rooster got up.

    The Argentinians were good, but we'd had better.

    115 words. 30 minutes.
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