Papa Knows Best

by Steven W. Thatcher

Ignata, my first wife, dumped a sweaty glass of iced tea from her serving tray directly onto my chicken quesadilla. She wet a napkin with her tongue and blotted a spot from my shirt, then whisked my ruined plate away, her face flushed beneath her brown skin. She returned and brought me a fresh plate with extra beans and said, “Perdón Señor.” Ignata, I read from her lapel pin, come with me to Antonia’s for a drink after work. She paused, her eyes bowls of warm Spanish rice, and said, “Si.” Her father, the dowdy restaurant owner who refused to attend our seaside wedding the following month, exchanged loud words with Ignata before she threw her apron and left with me, my free meal unfinished.

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Steven W. Thatcher is a physician and writer living in Illinois. He's trying to master the hot air arts of short fiction and kite flying.