The afternoon sun in Mexico City was baking the convenience store in the Seventh District like a steamer, the air mixed with the smell of tortillas and poor-quality gasoline.
Juan clutched a crumpled five-coin; he had just come off a nearby construction site, his sweat-soaked work pants clinging to his legs like a layer of mud.
"Give me a bottle of iced Coke, damn it's hot enough to melt people."
Juan slapped the coin onto the counter, the metallic clink startling the flies off the shelf.
The store manager Maria was wiping the freezer with a cloth, rolling her eyes at his words: "What's the rush, the iced ones are at the bottom." As she bent over, the flab of her lower back squeezed out of her cheap shirt, revealing a faded rose tattoo on her waist.
Hmm... not tattooed on the front.
