Should you peek behind old, brown walls, you will see chickens and chairs, chickens and chairs. A reason to sit and a place to perch. To have too many of either? Extraño. She doesn’t even seem to notice her rockers, benches, high-backs and hammocks overflowing into hallways, onto porches. Soon the men will rise from their slumber, hungry. ¡Pero, no! She remembers what she forgot because the sun is squinting through long, Ocotillo lashes: they left already. The wrinkled woman abandons her eggs for the axe. All day, shaking hands labor, slicing meat, grating cheese, kneading masa. But as dusk lays down its sweaty head, her tamales turn cold. Next to empty seats she waits, still wearing her apron.