The vato had asked her to dance years ago in a wedding in OJ, and she turned him down. Órale. He knew her name, and he assumed she knew his, but he kept his distance since then. A friend of his took her out on a few dates, but nothing came of it, he said. And he saw her doing the vuelta every now and then, which he took note of only because she had turned him down that night in OJ.
She picked up a boyfriend when he went away to college. When he came back for the summer each year, they ran into each other here and there, nodding politely. Es todo. They never talked.
Then one Sunday afternoon years later when he moved back into the state, he saw her while he was sitting at a street-side patio cantina watching people go by on the street. Seeing her in this different setting—away from home—jarred him out of a daydream he had been enjoying. He instinctively nodded, but she didn’t respond, just looked at him directly without an expression a long 4-5 seconds and walked on, turning back only slightly before she disappeared into the crowd.
The vato hoped she would do the vuelta, but she didn’t.
He came back the next Sunday, and she walked by again. Again, no nod, but this time a smile after a long look. Then she walked up to him.
“I know a vato back home that looks like you,” she said unexpectedly.
“Where’s that?” he asked sarcastically.
“Southside,” she said.
“What’s his name? I could be related,” he said.
“Never found out. Tried chipleando him for years, but he was always sonseando,” she said.
“Eee, you should’ve thrown him a chiflido. For sure he would’ve gotten all chipi then,” he said.
“¯_¯¯_¯____,” she whistled.
