We hailed, and we waited, and waited, and waited, and when the paleta vendor finally arrived, he claimed that the only paleta de leche left was this one.
“A likely story,” we harrumphed.
So, possums, what say ye? One of those little literary coincidences that flesh is heir to? Knowing accusation? Joyous exhortation in anticipation of National Coming Out Day? Or future personal motto? Possums, you decide.
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