(c) Chuck Teixeira, 2017
Miquel, my Venezuelan jefe, was drop-dead gorgeous. He had not come to Colombia as a refugee – he had merely seized an opportunity outside his country despite his mother’s reluctance to see him go. Then, as the economy at home collapsed with the price of oil, he became the life-line for his family, sending essentials not available in Caracas, Maracaibo or elsewhere.
Good looks aside – to the extent one can put looks aside – Miquel was also the only manager who had advocated for my hire, and the only one who greeted me with soft eyes my first day at work. Not surprising, then, that hope soared when, early on, he clarified that the boys in the photo on his desk were his nephews, not his sons – hope that soared then quickly sputtered.
Anyway, I had not come to Colombia to fall in love…
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