“Stop! You’re under arrest!” says Andres, the valet boy who works nights at the pizzeria in front of my house.
I hop off my bike to peer up through the shadows at him, perched there on the abandoned ledge across from the restaurant.
“What’s my crime?” I ask.
“Stealing my heart,” he says gallantly for the benefit of his friend beside him.
“What’s the fine?” I say, making the costeno hand toss to show my inquiry.
“Um…” He hesitates, then beams. “Just a kiss!” His friend chuckles in the dark.
“That’s too expensive,” I laugh. “Besides, what would my (fictitious)
“I’ll steal you from him!” He triumphantly proclaims.
“No!” I laugh all the way into my house.