by F. Malanoche
I flicked off the bathroom light after a late night piss and blindly stumbled across the hallway to my bedroom. All I wanted was to get back to my comfy spot in bed. The air conditioner whirred to life, covering the hum of the fridge. Then something clicked. An orange spark came from the kitchen table. I walked down the hallway.
A cigarette glowed in the darkness as the acrid smell of tobacco smoke permeated the room. There was a long exhale followed by a breathy voice in the shadows, “I’m Dana. I’m here about extending your car’s warranty.”
F. Malanoche writes, under the cover of night, hoping to bring authentic and odd Latino stories into the world. He teaches English in the Midwest, has a wonderful wife, and sweet vinyl collection. You can follow him on his Facebook page.