Sol Chico Cemento

The Mayan sun has a face. Mrs Hume examines the face of the sun.

The eyebrows bristle. The lids are deeply etched and the eyeballs roll upwards. The nose is bulbous. The mouth is a straight line inside an oval and the cheeks suggest a degree of exasperation.

She turns it over. Under the metal hook a paper sticker reads Sol Chico Cemento. The regular price has been reduced to one dollar ninety nine.

Finished? says a grating voice.

Mrs Hume turns the Mayan sun back over.

Sorry? says Mrs Hume.

Satisfied? grumbles the sun.

Mrs Hume decides to act as though such events are normal.

No, says Mrs Hume. I wish to consult you for advice.

Who am I? says the sun. I bet you don't even know.

Sol Chico Cemento, says Mrs Hume, quick as a flash.

Where did you get that piece of information? says the sun.

On your back, says Mrs Hume. Along with your retail price, and sale price.

Caramba! says the sun. How much was I?

Originally, two dollars twenty nine, says Mrs Hume. Reduced to....

Stop! says Sol Chico Cemento. I don't want to know. What did you want to ask me?

Nothing, says Mrs Hume. If you don't know what you're worth, you won't know anything.

I will, says Sol Chico Cemento. Ask me.

Should I stay and rescue Arthur, or go home without him? says Mrs Hume.

Sol Chico Cemento stretches his mouth and deepens his crevasses.

Do I remind you of anyone? asks Sol Chico Cemento.

Mrs Hume looks hard into his face. It reminds her of a certain clever clogs philosopher.

Yes, says Mrs Hume. You remind me of my son, David.

And what would he advise? asks Sol Chico Cemento.

Consider all the options, and then act, says Mrs Hume. Or something equally obvious.

Well then, says Sol Chico Cemento.

Thank you, says Mrs Hume. I think I shall go home.

Am I coming with you? asks Sol Chico Cemento.

Mrs Hume considers all the options.

Yes, says Mrs Hume.