I just shook my head, but didn’t comment, because she may have been on to something.
Carmen talked as she glanced in the direction of the service window. “The guy I saw was about the same age, same height, but not so bulked up. More of a swimmer’s build, short black hair, fine as hell. But nope, looks like he’s not here.”
I lifted a shoulder and glanced toward the truck again, before I turned to Carmen. “Maybe he just came to bring the truck up here, creep people out at the gas station, and has headed back home.”
Carmen laughed distractedly at my bad joke, still in the midst of an intense text exchange.
“Does Ted want us to get him something?”
Carmen and her husband, Ted, were both foodies and got extremely excited about any new food offerings in town. He was from Kansas but had lived all over Latin America for years beforeandafter he met Carmen. He also spoke perfect Spanish and was a devoted enthusiast of all Latin cuisine.
“No, he’s at a luncheon with some guest speaker, but he’s asking a million questions about the burritos and wants to try them ASAP. I told him he’s got to come down from that ivory tower once in a while and join us for lunch.”
Ted was a professor at Cornell and spent a lot of time on campus. Although Carmen made sure he took a breather from the scene up there as much as possible.
“I’m sure this truck will be at the Farmers’ Market at some point this summer. If not, we can ask them where they’ll be. They probably have an Instagram account where we can keep track of them.” She nodded again, her eyes focused on what she was tapping on her screen.
The line was moving pretty fast and soon there were only three people in front of us. There was music playing in the truck and I could hear Spanish coming from the back.
After high school, I lived in Honduras for a year and my Spanish got pretty good while I was there. Over the years I made an effort to practice it as often as I could, so I still could speak and understand it pretty well. I was too far away to make out what they were singing but was loving the music coming over the little speakers they’d set up at the counter. Some of my favorite artists were Latinx singers, so when a record I loved came on, I bobbed my head along with the music. I must have gotten distracted by the song, because when I looked up, I came face-to-face with “gas station guy.”
My heart almost leaped out of my chest when I saw him grinning at someone inside the truck. If possible, he looked even better than the first time I’d seen him.
I felt a nudge on my shoulder as I stood there gaping.
“Oh shit, that’s the guy.”
I was having trouble making words, so I didn’t answer Carmen. It seemed like he was taking over for the other guy, who I saw walking away from the truck with a backpack on his shoulder. When I stepped up to the counter he didn’t see me right away, but as soon as he turned around, his eyes lit up with recognition.
“Wow, three times in less than twenty-four hours. I had a feeling I’d see you again, Mr. NPR.”
He gave me another once-over as he took a pencil out of his apron pocket and held his pad up, ready to take my order. Like I wasn’t going to ask about the supposed second time he’d seen me.
“Three times? When did you see me a second time? Also, it’s pretty rude to laugh at people for no reason. Creepy, actually.”
He threw his head back and laughed, then winked at me like that could fix it.
“I did say I was sorry. I wasn’t laughingatyou, it was just, when I saw your shirt, it sort of sunk in I was in Ithaca.”
“Sure, that makes total sense,” I said with an eye roll.
He pointed in the direction of the library, “I saw you walking in there this morning, while I was setting up.”
The grin he was flashing in my direction was activating all sorts of feelings in my body.
“I’m a librarian.”
His eyes twinkled at my incredibly vague answer, then gave me an appreciative look. “I wondered.”
I was not totally sure what was happening, but I wasn’t going to hold up the line to continue awkwardly flirting with him, even if he was a smoking hot, very tall man.
“Never mind.” I waved my finger in the direction of the menu and tried to give him a businesslike look. “Could you please tell me about these? There are a lot of things I love happening here, but I’ve never had them in a burrito.”
He flashed me a devastating smile and said, “I thought you’d never ask.” He rubbed his hands together as he talked, making the muscles in his arms bulge.
“All our burritos are inspired from Afro-Caribbean flavors.El Mayimbe,I named after Fernando Villalona, my mom’s favorite merengue singer.”
Getting the rundown of a burrito menu should not be this erotic.
