Theresa

It is a hot sweltering afternoon in downtown Las Vegas and I'm wilting under the heat. Through the glare of the sun, I spot a bakery or panaderia as it's known in Spanish. More importantly, a faded sign saying 'ice cream' is screaming at me. As I walk in, a cool blast of air conditioning sends an unexpected shiver down my skin.

By the counter, I spot a bright, burgundy flash of over-coiffed hair with huge stiff curls sitting placidly on her shoulders. The lady's face is a leathery tan, plumpish and aged betraying many years of sun abuse. A look of resignation resonates within her. Fierce black outlined red lips pursed in a half frown. Her heavy lidded eyes topped with defiant, angular, penciled in eyebrows convey a previously turbulent life complete with heartbreak and drama. She is standing looking matronly in her light blue apron with a plastic tag named 'Theresa'. I almost hesitate to ask for the rocky road ice cream. She speaks with heavily accented English.