This is on the lighter end of Horacio Quiroga’s stories, which (of those I’ve read) tend to have more to do with death and desolation than the streetcar indiscretions we’ve got here. But it’s March, and I’m springing forward and bringing you with me, merrily because there’s no unsightly wad of money in our pockets to weigh us down, by hook or by crook.
Which is just to say, the best way to enjoy this one is on the portable music player of your choice, while skipping through a jasmine field with a ribbon in your hair.
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