“Cash only.” A sniff, wondering just how much Tecate Justine could afford–“I take USD and euros.” Because they’re worth more than her peso, she can buy a nice new bike with that money.
“If you weren’t staring, then I’m six feet tall.” And, well, Xóchitl is tragically, adorably, very much not six feet tall. She’s lucky to reach 5'5 in heels. “Do I have something on my face?” She was scarfing down some Duvalin earlier…
“Bon. I imagine the tour should take about an hour. Do you charge hourly?” Eyes squinting, calculating. She must pay her fairly. A little weird instinct Justine has picked up through the years. And by weird we mean clearly influenced by French protesting.
Justine doesn’t respond yet. Just stares at Xochitl silently, neutral. It’s fun to make people nervous for a moment. “Non.”
She really doesn’t have anything on her face, but suddenly she’s aware that Xochitl sniffed. “... Can you smell me from there?”
















