A butcher's moon. Know what that shit means? You're probably too young to remember. They used to call them old wives' tales. Nobody stays married anymore so now we just call them legends.
Legend has it, when the moon turns that shade of red mimicking blood, evil intent is on the horizon. For the incas, it was a jaguar attacking and eating the moon. In other civilizations, it meant a king or some other poor motherfucker was meant to die and pass on the baton. In 2018 Colorado, there was one jaguar living on the corner of 14th and Downing. On this night, he was attacking and eating just below her navel. He would circle her nether region, tracing an outline just above her…
That's not the point of this story. For once, it's not about the sex. It's about everything that followed. He found himself hungry and wanting company. One of those nights where he rather burn the midnight oil next to something warm than sit above his corner apartment leering at the civilians making their walks of shame. He wrapped her up in his scarf and they walked, hand in hand, pretending to be one of those things we only see in Hollywood. Two blocks north, and six blocks west across Colfax until they reached Tom's Diner. A purposeful anachronism. That's right…anachronism…I once studied for the GRE. All original leather upholstery from the 90s. Nothing but diarrhea food came out of that kitchen, but there was no better seat in the city to watch the freaks parade. On a night like this…who could resist?
On a Saturday night, he knew his options. Either the Puerto Rican or Betty. Betty's real name was Maria but she worked long enough to know the more Ethnic the name, the less tips and more attitude folks felt you deserved. Betty's great great grand-somebody left the coast of some villa in Italy for the new frontier and never looked back. New York, Pennsylvania, Columbus, and eventually Colorado. The family worked their way across America in just under a century.
The Puerto Rican was out sick. Betty was wearing her usual vanilla apron over some yellow frock from a decade far too unfamiliar to him. He liked her because she never asked questions. The Puerto Rican was far too jovial and gay for his liking. What an unnatural thing to be that happy. Beyond her usual side glances, Betty never said much. Once, he came in on his own and she mentioned something about the church a few blocks away but he never bit. And in that quiet brand of disappointment all Catholics have mastered, she let it known he would never join her tribe. Tonight, though, was different.
