The Forgotten

I was already halfway in the plaza before I realized that I had been following the man. As I approached him, the scent of wet dirt that the light rain had blessed me with was being slowly overcome by the smell of a man who had not been home in a few days.

He thought I was a tourist. Another gringo with money and intentions to buy one of his handmade palm leave fans to bring back home so as to put on top of the fireplace and brag to friends and family about how educated they happen to be on those exotic cultures in the south.

His wrinkles pursed in disappointment as he realized I was not a customer. Just a boy with a camera. Not even a gringo. 


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