Brazillian Maid

He had been there for nearly three drinks, when she tapped him on the shoulder. At first, he ignored the interruption, figuring it was just another street vendor.

“Hola”, she said, in her native Brazillian tongue. She then rattled off a series of unfamiliar sounds.

He stumbled, replying “No falla Portuguese, falla Ingles?”, as his travel agent had instructed him to say.

“Yes”, she replied, “but very little”. She sat in the chair next to him, facing him directly. He could see that she was young, perhaps just 22 or so, roughly half his age.

“Drink?”, he replied, keeping his speech simple for her, pointing at his glass. She nodded, and he ordered another two Caipirinhas.

“Where you from?”, she continued, struggling with her words.

“United States, Los Angeles, California”, he replied, rounding off the location a bit to keep it simple.

The rest of the world disappeared the moment she sat down. He now understood why he had come here.

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