Where Serpents Change Their Skin
Flash Fiction
If you ask me, there’s too much English in the world already, but I’m not so principled I won’t earn money teaching it while traveling indefinitely.
These days I live in Puebla, a central Mexican city of four million dominated by the automobile industry. I help executives, engineers, and logistics experts polish the conversational skills they need to wine and dine decision-makers on business trips to Gringolandia. It pays well and prevents me from having to deal with teenagers and children.
Speaking of wining and dining, Arlet is my last student of the week, and tonight we’re holding class on a rooftop terrace boasting a view of the Great Pyramid of Cholula and drinking a blended white from Baja California’s Valle de Guadalupe.
The wine pairs well with mild cheeses, seafood, and poultry, none of which we’re eating. Food slows the absorption of alcohol, and the 13.7% this wine carries goes well with the sheer fabric of Arlet’s blouse. She’s started dressing up for class, and I’ve been pretending not to notice, pretending I don’t know what that means.
While I refill our glasses, we indulge in our running argument about whether or not it is exceptional that Arlet speaks five languages.
