The sun beat down mercilessly on the crowded streets of San Pablo. The market was alive with the hum of chatter, the clinking of coins, and the occasional outburst of laughter. Lolita stood at her small stall, selling oranges just as she had done every day for the past four years. Her brown eyes, sharp and watchful, scanned the crowd that milled about in front of her. She let out a deep sigh, brushing a strand of her silky black hair from her face, already sticky from the heat.

She adjusted the neatly stacked oranges on her stall, her movements brisk and practiced. Lolita was beautiful—stunning, even. Yet, her beauty felt like a cruel joke in a place like this, where survival took precedence over admiration. Her features were striking: almond-shaped green eyes, high cheekbones, and lips that seemed made for smiles she rarely gave. But her beauty was hardened by her demeanor. People often whispered about her—a woman as cold as she was lovely. Some called her difficult, others a "bitch," but Lolita didn't care. She didn't have the luxury of caring.

She sighed again, murmuring under her breath, "How much longer can I do this? Selling oranges for scraps, pretending like this is enough to live." Her voice held a sharp edge of frustration, her words low enough that only she could hear.

A customer approached—a young woman holding a toddler on her hip. "How much for six?" the woman asked, her voice tired but polite.

"Twelve pesos," Lolita replied, not bothering to smile.

"Twelve? Can you do ten? Times are hard."

Lolita's jaw tightened. She wanted to snap that times were hard for everyone, that she had her own struggles, but she didn't have the energy for an argument. "Fine. Ten." She grabbed the oranges, dropped them into a bag, and handed them over, her expression blank.

The woman thanked her and walked away. Lolita watched her go, her chest tightening with envy. At least the woman had a child—a purpose. Lolita, on the other hand, felt like she was running in circles, trapped in a life she didn't choose and couldn't escape.

"Buenos días, Lolita," called Marisol, the vegetable vendor from the stall next to hers.

"Morning," Lolita replied flatly, not looking up. She knew Marisol meant well, but the older woman's cheerful demeanor grated on her nerves. How could anyone be happy in this place?

Another customer approached—a man with a weathered face and kind eyes. He handed her a few coins and picked out some oranges without saying much. Lolita didn't bother with pleasantries. She was too tired, too bitter.

.

As she stared out into the crowd of bargaining customers and laughing children, she muttered under her breath, her lips barely moving. "How long am I supposed to live like this? Selling oranges, scraping coins together, and smiling at people I don't even like." Her voice was low, her tone sharp, like a knife cutting through her thoughts.

A middle-aged woman approached the stall, her face lined with years of hard work. "How much for a dozen?" she asked, her voice soft but firm.

Lolita barely looked at her. "Fifteen pesos," she replied curtly, her tone clipped. She didn't care to charm her customers—she didn't need to. Her oranges were fresh and bright, and in San Pablo, people came because they needed to, not because they wanted to.

The woman frowned. "Fifteen? Last week it was twelve."

Lolita's brow furrowed, and she let out another sigh, this one exaggerated. "Prices go up. Everything's expensive now. You want them or not?"

The woman hesitated, then reluctantly handed over the coins. Lolita snatched them up and shoved the oranges into a thin plastic bag. "Thank you," the woman said, her tone tinged with disapproval. Lolita didn't bother to respond. She was already staring past her, looking for the next customer.

The market stall was small and cramped, just a few wooden beams holding up a crooked roof of corrugated metal. To one side, Lolita's neighbors Mrs marisol sold vegetables—wilted lettuce, bruised tomatoes, and onions that had seen better days. On the other side, a man named julio sold cheap trinkets and plastic toys that glinted under the sun. San Pablo's market was a place where everyone knew everyone else's business, and Lolita hated the idea of being talked about. At least, not for the wrong reasons.

As the day dragged on, she continued her murmuring, her words a mixture of complaints and wishes. "I'm tired of this. Tired of being poor. Tired of this hellhole." The complaints were frequent, but the wishes were more dangerous. They were whispers of escape, of something better—things she barely dared to say out loud. "One day, I'll get out of here. I'll leave this place and never look back."

But even as she said it, she knew the weight of reality. At 24 years old, Lolita's life was tethered to the small, crumbling house she shared with her family. Her mother, bedridden and coughing up blood more often than not, relied on Lolita for everything. Her 10-year-old brother, Mateo, was too young to understand the sacrifices she made. And her 18-year-old sister, Clara, while sweet and eager to help, was too naïve to carry the burden. It all fell on Lolita, and she resented it—not her family, exactly, but the life she had been forced into.

Another customer approached, a young man with a charming smile and an easy demeanor. "Buenos días," he said, his voice warm. "How much for three?"

Lolita's eyes flicked to him, her expression unreadable. She could see the flirtation in his gaze, the way he lingered on her face for a moment too long. She hated it. Men always looked at her like that—like she was something to conquer. "Five pesos each," she said flatly.

"Five? That's steep," he replied, chuckling.

Lolita didn't laugh. "Then go buy somewhere else," she said, her tone icy. The man blinked, surprised, then shrugged and handed her the money. She bagged the oranges without a word and shoved them toward him. "Have a nice day," she said, but there was no kindness in her voice.

As the man walked away, she muttered under her breath again. "Idiots. All of them." She leaned against the wooden beam of her stall and stared into the distance. The market was alive with noise—children yelling, vendors shouting prices, music playing faintly from a nearby radio. But to Lolita, it all felt like a cage. The same sights, the same sounds, the same smells, every single day.

Her mind drifted to her family. She thought of her mother, lying in bed back at home, her face pale and sunken. The doctor had said it was tuberculosis, but the medicine was too expensive. Lolita did what she could—boiling herbs, making soups—but she knew it wasn't enough. Mateo was probably at school, his uniform a little too small, the soles of his shoes worn thin. And Clara tsk.

A deep exhaustion settled over her, both physical and emotional. She wanted more than this life of struggle. She wanted freedom, money, love,—though the last one was something she didn't believe in. Love, to her, was a weakness, a distraction. She had seen too many women in San Pablo fall for the wrong men, only to end up with more mouths to feed and no way out. Lolita had promised herself she would never be one of them.

A loud laugh from a nearby stall broke her train of thought. Marisol, the vegetable vendor, was chatting with a group of women, her round face alight with joy. Lolita watched them for a moment, her lips pressing into a thin line. She didn't understand how people could be so cheerful when life was so hard. It annoyed her, though she would never admit it was also a little enviable.

As the afternoon wore on, the crowd began to thin. Lolita counted the coins in her tin box, her lips moving as she added them up. It wasn't enough. It was never enough.

She closed her stall just before sunset, her feet aching and her head pounding. As she walked home through the narrow, dusty streets of San Pablo, she thought again of escape. She imagined herself in a city far away, wearing a dress that didn't smell of sweat and oranges, walking down a street where no one knew her name.

But when she reached the front door of her house—a crumbling structure with peeling paint and a sagging roof—she pushed the thought away. This was her reality, for now. And no matter how much she hated it, she couldn't leave. Not yet.

Inside, her sister Clara greeted her with a tired smile, and Mateo ran to her, his face bright with excitement. "Did you bring anything?" he asked eagerly.

Lolita handed him an orange and ruffled his hair. "Just this," she said, her voice softer now, though the exhaustion still lingered. She glanced toward the bedroom where her mother lay and sighed again.

Maybe someday, she thought. But not today.