El Jefe

Eva came to the Farm for the first time on a summer afternoon, meeting George by the crooked bank of mailboxes at the end of the long dirt road. He was already there waiting for her when she arrived. She followed his truck up the long driveway to his rambling farmhouse. He opened the front door and motioned for her to go inside.

She had seen his ad on the internet many months earlier while researching rentals in the area and kept it filed away as something to maybe check out once she moved to Idaho. The place looked and sounded like some sort of commune with rooms for rent in a big old house. Probably a bunch of stoner hippies who sit around a fire beating drums every night, she thought, initially not too excited about the place. Eva really just wanted to be alone for a while.

“Welp, I don’t have any rooms open in the house right now, but let me show you around anyway,” George said with a wide grin as they stood in his kitchen. He spoke slowly and gently, and there were some bits of hay in his hair and a half-eaten carrot in the front pocket of his shirt. He was around retirement age, and with his red plaid shirt and dirt-encrusted jeans held up by suspenders, he looked like a storybook farmer.

Eva was slightly disappointed, wondering why he’d asked her to come by if there weren’t any openings. Her tall, slender frame towered over his squat, frog-like appearance by nearly a foot. “I heard everything’s bigger in Texas,” he said. “But are they all as tall and pretty as you?”

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