“Pupusas?” The woman’s nasal voice reached Randall at the back of the bus before he saw her pushing her way down the aisle. He could smell the warm, raw meat smell of his own sweaty body, and his stomached wriggled. He was hungry, but he couldn’t face mysterious little bits of meat.
“Quiere pupusas?” the voice called again, and Randall saw the plump figure with her plastic tub approach his seat.
“Frijol?” he asked, his high school Spanish failing him for a full sentence.
“Sí,” the woman answered. “Frijol y queso.”
“Dos, por favor,” Randall said, and fished in his pocket for a crumpled bill.