Silvia

Don flips tortillas all day at the corner spot, sneaking peeks through the kitchen pass at whoever wanders in. Then these Asian girls stroll in for dinner, laughing at his salsa, and Don slides out to chat. They drop the name Soapy Massage like it’s an inside joke and Don can’t shake the image once they leave. After six straight doubles, he calls for the one free hour he’s got left. Door buzzes. Silvia opens up, hair still damp, towel barely making an effort, and sells him on the “combination package” like she’s doing him a favor. “Fiesta,” she says, already walking away, and Don follows the promise of slick heat and that happy-ending prize at the finish line.