Tacos to Go and Go and Go


Justine had every right to be disturbed, but she almost took my ear off, shouting, “I want a taco, not a pizza.  Can’t I just have a damn taco?”

“Okay, there’s a taco joint,” I said.  “Let me park the car.”  It was going to be a job mollifying my wife in the depths of her despair, which had nothing to do with eating.  She was sick in her soul, in a way only priests and psychiatrists could diagnose.  We had lost any children before they were born.

 

The taqueria was new to me, but these places in Los Angeles come and go like yesterday’s celebrities.  It was spiffy and very California looking.  Totally un-ethnic.  “Order me a quesadilla.  Chicken, with a side of refritos,” Justine said.  “I’m going to use the bathroom.”

 

“You’ll have to wait,” I said.  “Some geezer in a yellow sweater just went in.”

 

“Damn,” she muttered.  “Just one sign that says hombres y muchachas.  Guess that lets them off the hook for transgenders.”





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