He was an old man who ordered alone and who would go on 24 hours without a burrito. Yet his eyes were cheerful and undefeated. So he went down to the street where he saw the shop and then the great flat, white plane of the tortillas, the white puffs from the steam peaks of white rice, the dried blood-red of the pintos, the glisten of onions and the inky slick of black beans. The boy behind the counter saw the old man and asked, burrito or bowl? And the old man took a breath before answering.
I heard this, and thought some of my Peak Putter friends would appreciate.
