Tacos to Go and Go and Go

 

“I speak English,” he said pointedly.  “Your quesadillas are here.”  He placed two paper plates on the glass counter.  “The man,” he said hesitantly, “is like a regular.  We can’t do nothing about it.”

 

Justine came from a large family, with two sisters and a brother.  And a mother who asked us constantly when we were going to have children.  Mom would give me the stink eye as though I wasn’t trying hard enough.  For two weeks, Justine had suffered stomach pain and bleeding until I forced her to see her doctor.

 

By the third bite of my quesadilla I looked up wondering where Justine was.  The counter man was alternately staring at me and at the bathroom door.  “What!” I demanded.





About me

This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)