Tex Mex

"“Cheesy as always.” I squirm away, to the edge of my seat. “Fine. Just stay away from my internal organs, ‘kay? This is the 21st century, we don’t sacrifice humans anymore. My ancestors might’ve been Aztec, but my family’s Catholic now. The only sacrifice we believe in has to do with a certain Son of God and some very unfortunately placed nails.”
      I swallow the burning coffee, wincing as it scalds my throat.
     Tex snorts, then backs away. “I know.” He looks out our bay window, at the autumn leaves that border the Library of Congress. “No one’s sent me a human girl—blood, body, and soul—in such a long, long time.”
      “There’s always Russian mail order brides.”
     Tex folds his newspaper into origami, some kinda bird. “What about you, eh? You’re always complaining about Washington’s men—how stuck up they are, how boring. I could be your answer. All I’m asking for is a little blood.”
     “I’m Chicana, born and bred in D.C., not a girl named Olga looking for U.S. citizenship. And blood sacrifice is right up there on my list with being stung by a nest of hornets.”
     Tex rumbles with laughter. “Trying to turn my own wit on me, eh?” He snatches the remainder of my cup, mostly full, and downs it.  “Don’t. Sharp words come at a price.” Tex licks the last drops from his lips."

Excerpted from the Flash fiction "Tex Mex" by Allister Nelson, forthcoming in Vol. 7 of Enheduanna Journal