She was the type of girl who wanted to be loved and never pitied. And in return she only offered love. She was a girl of even temperament who could only become excited by the sound of rolling dice. She was a girl who would stroke the arm of her lover, calming him down and soothing the beast within in him rather than cowering from his rage and allowing him to destroy what little furniture they had. Despite her name and her beauty she was not Spanish nor did she speak the language. Her name was the product of a forgotten colonial past. All she had from that time were her Latin smile and a penchant for fatatas. She was an artist. Her paintings were obviously feminist yet her attitude to living was free from protest or oppression. Despite her water colour bound vagina her sex was free for one man and he neither entombed nor forced her to fulfil his mammalian sexual desires. She was, and is, occasionally willing and occasionally unwilling largely depending on the thickness of his cigarette breath or his level of inebriation. He would smoke menthols and drink cheap red wine to increase his chances of copulation but she was wise to his American clandestine tactics and she could often be heard laughing sarcastically at his clumsy advances before shushing him to sleep. She was not a girl to take bearded fools lightly. There are some that say she found her lover whimpering in an alleyway with a thorn in his paw and unable to speak the language of his surroundings. Others say that she was wooed by his country guitar a gravel voice. But everyone agrees that without her he would be homeless. Regardless, to see them together is to witness harmony. She gave him a home and allowed him to be himself; and there he grows, fed and watered by her energy and love. She is the only one who can ignore his imaginary friend who insists on going by the name of Dr Charles (although to be quite frank his medical credentials are not worth the salty mango ink they are written with). He talks to the doctor and she strokes his arm without judgement. Miss Santos may only be one of a few of her kind but she’s as humble as an apple pie and as sweet as the vanilla ice-cream that smothers it.