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OF THE OTHER PERSUASION
- Monthly Issue Contributor
- Aug 31
- 8 min read
Updated: Oct 20
By: David Larsen
August 2025 ISSUE
Short Fiction
Editor: Kylie Catena
Teresa Duran watched Vera, her housemaid, skillfully set the porcelain dinnerware, imported from Spain, and the silverware, purchased in Mexico City, onto the grand mahogany table that once entertained some of the most important people from both sides of the border. The Durans were known for their collection of elegant pieces from around the world. When Teresa’s father, a proud and well-respected rancher, was alive, he traveled for meetings with the president of Mexico and other dignitaries to meet with other movers and shakers. For the first time since his passing, the water and wine glasses sparkled as they hadn’t in years.
“Vera,” said Teresa, “I want everything to be just right tonight. That’s why I asked you to fix that albondigas soup and the enchilada casserole your mother used to serve. This man is a bit of a rube, and I don’t want to overwhelm him. I just don’t want things to seem too pretentious. But I do want to wow him.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Vera. “The soup is simmering on the stove, and the casserole is in the oven. And, as you requested, the flan looks just like the flan my mother used to make. The wine is on ice.”
Teresa felt slightly peculiar commanding Vera. The two women had grown up together decades ago. Vera’s mother had worked for Teresa’s mother. When they were girls, they used to play around the kitchen together and sample everything Vera’s mother, Rosa, used to prepare for Teresa’s family and their hoity-toity guests, which on more than a few occasions had included the governor of Texas and on other occasions the governor of Chihuahua or Coahuila. Those were better times. Back when the name Duran carried a great deal of weight in Contreras County—and the state of Texas, for that matter—before so much of the family’s land had to be sold off to the brash and uncouth newcomers from San Antonio, Austin, Dallas, tennis shoe wearing yuppies who knew nothing of dignity and refinement, let alone ranching, and before Teresa had to struggle as best she could to maintain some level of respect.
“I think I’ll tell him about my mother’s family being descended from El Cid,” said Teresa. She winced. “Although he is a grocer…he might not have ever heard of El Cid. Or I could tell him how my great-grandfather served in Porfirio Diaz’s cabinet, before the unfortunate troubles in Mexico.” She sighed. “I had a professor at St. Mary’s who tried to convince me that my being related to El Cid was dubious. Did I ever tell you that? But my mother swore to it. Who am I to believe? My mother or some egghead?” She laughed. “It doesn’t matter. It’s a good story.”
“Your mother was proud of that,” said Vera. “She had her pride. She was a good woman. And your father was a good man. They both treated my mother with respect.”
That comes from breeding, thought Teresa. They were raised to be genteel—unlike so many people in this county. She studied the table. The candles will be perfect, if a bit suggestive. If only I’d thought of flowers. Men must like flowers. Don’t they? But to drive all the way to Ft. Stockton to purchase any today would have been out of the question, and to have them delivered would have been absurd. After dinner, we’ll move to Papa’s study. It’s far more intimate in there. Vera will bring the brandy. I just don’t want the man to feel cornered, but what I’m proposing will benefit both of us, even if it is coming totally out of the blue. I must gently convince him of how beneficial a union between us would be. Stranger unions have worked out quite well. And I’m not getting any younger. Fifty-one, but he doesn’t need to know that.
“Would you like something to drink before dinner?” asked Teresa.
Hector Gonzalez sat across the living room from Teresa on the leather sofa her father had ordered from an importer in San Antonio. Teresa was a bit disappointed in his appearance. But he was a grocer as well as a county commissioner. His shoes needed a good polishing. His shirt, clean, neatly tucked into his trousers, could have used a pressing. But the man was a widower. Maybe he had no one. And he did live in Dos Pesos, hardly the fashion capital of the world.
“I might like a beer,” said the grocer. “It’s a long drive back into town.” He grinned. “When I leave here, I have to go by the store to make sure Angie closed everything up properly.”
Oh my, thought Teresa, a beer? I had an aperitif in mind, perhaps a martini. Vera is so good at martinis. Oh well. “Yes,” said Teresa. “It’s almost impossible to find good help. Someone you can count on. A partner, so to speak.” She tilted her head toward the kitchen.
“I’m so lucky to have Vera. Don’t you feel that we all reach a point in life when we come to realize the importance of having a partner?”
“If the truth be known, Angie keeps me out of trouble. She’s about as good as anyone could hope for.”
Out of nowhere, Vera arrived with a bottle of Coors.
“I hope Coors will be all right. I know how men can be about their beer.
“Coors is perfect.” The grocer sat up. “I’m not much of a drinker.” He paused. “Miss Duran, am I here on business as a commissioner…or what? There are matters I cannot discuss outside of the courthouse and away from the other commissioners. The open meetings laws and all.”
Teresa laughed. “How proper you are, Mr. Gonzalez. And, please, call me Teresa. May I call you Hector? I promise you that you’re here for dinner and nothing else. I will not compromise your integrity in any way. I just thought it was time we got to know each other. We both come from families that have been prominent in this community for some time.”
The grocer smiled. “I’m in my second term…as commissioner. I haven’t announced it, but I don’t plan to run for reelection. I’m fifty-seven years old. It’s time for someone else to take over. I’m a Democrat in a district that moves more and more to the right. I’m afraid I’m becoming obsolete.”
“Not now,” said Teresa. “Let’s not discuss partisan politics. Let us make tonight a night for us to become better acquainted. When I was away in boarding school, I learned not to let petty differences get in the way of forming meaningful relationships.”
The grocer smiled.
He is a handsome man, thought Teresa. Handsome enough. In his own way. The accent is a bit off-putting. But at least he doesn’t sound like those good old boys in town and the rest of the commissioners—a bunch of redneck ranchers. Men. I’m learning late in life that they may just be a necessary evil. I hate to put my fate in the hands of one of them, but time’s moving on. Better late than never, as my mother used to say.
The man’s appetite was voracious, and unfortunately, his table manners could use some improvement, but what did she expect? The good old days when the guests in the house were as refined as her parents were long gone. If she wanted to get on Hector Gonzalez’s good side, she’d have to overlook his provincial ways.
In Teresa’s father’s oak-paneled study, a snifter of cognac in their hands, they sat side by side on the narrow sofa, a modest piece given to her family by none other than the Bush family. The father and mother of the first president Bush.
“Hector,” said Teresa. “I’ve given this a great deal of thought. As you might know, I never married. I never saw much reason to marry. I confess that I thought that I’d never need a man in my life. I’ve tried to be as independent as possible. And, as you must know, my parents left me with this ranch and a great deal of responsibility. But now, as I grow a little older, I can see that having a man to team up with would be a great advantage. If I am to accomplish all that I hope to accomplish I’ve come to realize that a man, even this late in life, could be a great asset.”
The grocer squirmed on the sofa. “Before you go any further, I must interrupt.”
“No, no. Please. I’ve worked on what I have to say all day.” Teresa dabbed her eyes with a lace handkerchief, her mother’s. “Allow me to say what I need to say.”
Hector sat up. “But I’m afraid you’re going into something I’m not prepared to discuss.”
“Please, Hector. Allow me. This isn’t easy. Women like me have been raised to never be so forward, but I feel what I must propose to you is of vital value to both of us.” Teresa paused, took a sip of her cognac, then continued. “As I was saying, I have this ranch, and I have several assets. I feel that I have so much to offer. To you…and the county.”
“And as I told you, I don’t intend to run for reelection,” said Hector. “My wife died during my first term, and she gave me a good deal of support. Since I’m not running again, and my store keeps me busy, I don’t think this discussion is necessary.” He blinked and sat back. “Nor is it appropriate. I’m not ready for anything like this.”
“Good God, man. What are you talking about?”
“Am I wrong? The dinner? The candles? The cognac? You going on about needing a man? What am I to think? It seems all too obvious to me.”
She laughed. “Hector, I’m asking you to endorse me when I run for your seat on commission’s court. What did you think? Oh, my. Oh, my.” Teresa shook her head, then put her hands to her face. “Hector, I want you to support me if I run.” Again, she laughed. “And you thought what…what did you think? Oh my.”
“I’m sorry,” said Hector. “Should I go?”
“No, no. Oh my. Please stay. What a mess. I guess I can see where you got that notion. I just hope I haven’t offended you. Oh my. I just thought with me being a Republican and you being what James Joyce would have called ‘of the other persuasion,’ I’d have to wine and dine you. I had no other intentions other than to try to get your support. I am so sorry.”
“No need to apologize. I am sorry for the misunderstanding. I will consider the endorsement.” Hector stood and outstretched his hand for Teresa to shake. “We will talk soon.”
Teresa grabbed his hand firmly, just as her father had taught her.
“Wonderful,” Teresa replied with a smile, “let me walk you out.”
The taillights on the grocer’s pickup truck faded into the night as Teresa stood at the door. She allowed the cool air to bring her around to the realization that the evening was over, none too soon. She sighed. Have I made a fool of myself? she wondered. What must he think of me? Did I sound pitifully desperate?
As Vera cleared the table, Teresa watched. “Vera, just do what you must tonight. Tomorrow, you can finish up. We’re both tired.”
“Did it go the way you wanted it to?” asked the maid.
Teresa shrugged. “He’ll consider the endorsement.” She stopped. “He wouldn’t allow me to discuss the other matter.”
David Larsen
David Larsen is a writer who lives in El Paso, Texas. His stories have been published in numerous literary journals and magazines including Cholla Needles, The Heartland Review, Seven, Literary Heist, Aethlon, Coneflower Café, The Raven Review, Voices, Dark Winter Literary Magazine, Mobius, Hares Paw, The Griffel Literary Magazine, Bright Flash Literary Floyd County Moonshine, The Mantelpiece, Oakwood, Nude Bruce Review, Canyon Voices, Change Review, The Word’s Faire, Hare’s Paw, Red Dirt Forum and October Hill Magazine.
For more information:
House of Grief
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