Cabrón?

Manhattan, Spring, 1997. I saw the prettiest Colombian girl I ever met. Waitress at the tapas bar Xunta, mojellas skewered in wine, hamhocks smothered in beurre blanc. Rosario was her name. She was looking foxy. We danced, we mingled. I told my friend from Bogota to call her "foxy" ("zorrosa" ) on my behalf. Growlll. Needless to say, that relationship never worked out.