Ay, marry!

Out of context, it’s hard not to hear this line with a Spanish accent and interpret it vastly differently. I picture a woman in her 40s, with her dark hair piled high on her head, tendrils spilling out in all directions, glasses perched on her nose. She’s sitting on a bar stool in one of those cantinas – you know the kind they have in movies – but are maybe based on something real, not that I’d know since I’ve never actually seen an actual cantina.
I’m picturing the kind with a tin roof, open to the elements, the bar, a weathered wood, the customers almost as weathered and our black haired beauty sits on her stool presiding over them all in her black dress that drapes over her like it was made for her and it probably was. She speaks when a distinguished man, well dressed, somehow buttoned up even in his summer linens asks her why she’s never married. She throws up her hands, laughs, loudly and exclaims.

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