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About Fajardo

Still, gotta laugh—her hustle’s tighter than my bridgework. Sarcasm? Oh, she’s a “real lady,” servin’ kings in a Secaucus motel! Fuckin’ kills me. Love her grit, tho—makes me wanna root for her, like I’m watchin’ *Leviathan*’s end all over again. “Man’s a beast,” movie says—she proves it, every damn night. Whaddya think, pal? Tough broad, huh?

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Then, outta nowhere, it starts rainin’. I mean, like, torrential downpour. I’m soaked in seconds. I’m cursing the weather gods, like, “Really? You couldn’t wait five minutes?” I duck into a café on Calle 65. It’s cozy, and the coffee? Ugh, life-saver. I sit down, tryin’ to dry off, and this old lady starts tellin’ me about her life. She’s been livin’ in Ceiba forever. She’s got stories, man. Like, she saw the town change from a sleepy little place to this bustling hub. I’m just sittin’ there, sippin’ my coffee, thinkin’, “Wow, I’m just a speck in this whole thing.”

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