Fausto was walking around El Cerrito, whistling a tune to himself, a jazz number. The big ol’ nice hot yellow sun was up there brilliating in the ‘lectric blue sky dappled with funny lil puffy clouds. There was a pleasant lil breeze rustling through the hyper green leaves of the trees, birds tweeting, and whatnot. ’Twas a sweet lil idyl.
He was in town visiting his auntie and unc and his lil newborn baby cuzzo. Tio Marty was at work and Tia Malika and prima Aylin were napping together so he figured he’d strike out on a lil paseo through the quaint lil suburban neighborhood.
He hadn’t walked but a couple blocks when a beautiful amethyst-colored butterfly landed on his shoulder, said: “Sup.”
“Sup, Mariposita.”
“Chillin, you?”
“Chillin too, ride with me.”
And she did, whispering directions into his ear, “turn left here,” etc.
The butterfly choreographed a long, winding, weaving hike; up through Kensington, down through south Kensington, on into Paradise Hills, where his folks first shacked up. All the while, Fausto and Mariposita talked about whatever popped into their heads: books, movies, music, politics, philosophy, etc. Fausto was usually a dude of few words, and he had only just met Mariposita when she landed on his shoulder but the connection was so…
