Dove
The bell above the door jingled and the whole shop went quiet for half a second.It wasn't because of me. Or at least, it wasn't supposed to be.
I was just here for bread.
The store was small and bright, the walls painted that faded yellow you see all over La Romana. Shelves were crammed with everything. Rice, beans, coffee, cleaning supplies, hair products, phone cards. A fridge in the corner hummed loudly and had posters for Presidente beer taped all over it. The floor was tile, cool under my sandals. The air smelled like bleach, warm bread, and the sweet sharpness of ripe mangoes in a crate by the register.
Behind the counter, Doña Nicola looked up from her magazine and froze. "¡Ay, Dios mío!" (Oh my God!) she said, dropping the pen she was holding. "¡Dove! ¡Mijo!" (Son!)
I smiled, because that's what you do. "Hola, Doña Nicola," I said. "¿Cómo está?" (How are you?)
