Hold the Mayo

At the Mexican restaurant, the thing I noticed right off were the paintings --sort of fantasy pictures of the imaginary old Mexico. Happy peasants worked the fields while someone looking vaguely like the Cisco Kid waved from his horses.

The colors were bright. Everyone smiled and the nipples of the women were working their way through their simple cotton shirts like old nails through cheap ply board.

What the hell?

What amazed and amused me is while I could clearly make out the shape of nipples on the women, the half-naked boy, playing near a stream in the background didn't have nipples. None. The artist had evidently determined that, for the sake of art, the boy did not require them --even if anatomically, he'd be a freak not to have them. Likewise, the guy on the horse, appeared to be wearing a shirt of the same kind of material, that was easily as sheer, but were his nipples poking through?

No, they were not.

I did not check the horse.

So looking at the pictures, I asked a waitress, "Do you know who painted these?"

She looked at me like I was insane then shrugged. The fuck if she knew and why did I care?

I'd have asked the waitress her opinion of nipples, but figured the dark-eyed cook with the carnival prize West Coast Choppers hat in the back would have dredged me in flour and dropped me headfirst in the fryer.

So, I went back and finished my beer and hoped someone would bring more chips.

They never did.