She was a lousy senorita. The lousiest senorita. She
would slap you. She would bite you. She would jump
you. You couldn’t do anything right. You couldn’t yawn
or sneeze. You couldn’t talk on the phone after nine or
write letters before five. If you wanted a cat, you had to
walk it. If you wanted another cat, you had to kill the first
cat. It made no sense. Her limits were not measurable.
She lived by a strict code. You had to comb your hair with
your hand. It didn’t matter if your hand was broken:
nothing was broken according to Senorita Durable. The cosmos
were not broken. The moon and stars were not broken.
Sweeping and mopping were not broken. Things would
escalate and things would decay. Senorita Durable would
never talk when she was reading. She would only spit.