Los Terminador

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Jose looks up at the ding of the bell announcing a customer has entered his restaurant. On this, what feels like a normal Sunday, the sight in front of him seems out of place.

He blinks as if it is a mirage.

He closes his eyes and applies pressure to the delusional orbs with  well calloused thumbs and rubs. When he reopens them the image is still there. So he decides he must still be in bed asleep and pinches his thigh under his apron.

The pain is bright, but the man is still there, old, but powerful. Jose takes in every inch as the movie star strides forward. He decides that maybe he stands six feet tall and is built with mountains of muscle. Thick veins bulge along his arms and his pecs dance with power under a purple t-shirt that looks expensive. His million dollar smile twinkles like it does in the movies. His blue eyes shine with the intensity of the rogue cop, or mercenary out for blood, but are touched with humor as if he is on the verge of telling a joke, but only to hear his audience laugh.

Even though it’s a surreal thing seeing him away from the movie screen the man is recognizable. The whole world knows his name, but today, for some reason he heads straight to the counter in front of Jose. The small man from Guadalajara feels his heart flutter with nervousness and excitement.

“Is it you?” Jose stutters hating the sound of his accented English for the first time in years. Ironic he would feel shame being an immigrant in front of this person that he shares so many characteristics with, like a never say die attitude and a resourcefulness that has led both of them to own businesses in a country other then the one they were born.

The large man’s smile stretches across his face showing the space between his front teeth, “Ja.” he says with an Austrian accent

“Why…” Jose questions.

“Tacos little man, tacos.”

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