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“How many do you want?”
She wasn’t sure she was quite up for tacos that smelled like that—not after the day she’d had. “Where’s the menu?”
“The steak tacos are good. Everything else is crap. How many do you want?”
Gah, he was pushy. “Are they big?”
He exhaled, impatient. “They’re the size of tacos.”
“Two.”
“I get five.”
“Okay, three.”
He nodded and turned his back. May sat down and touched something sticky. Would it be rude if she asked Ben to borrow a rag from behind the counter so she could wipe it clean?
Probably.
The Formica had a deep pit in it. She ran her fingertip over the satiny exposed wood. Raucous Mexican pop music played over the kitchen’s radio.
The clock on the wall said it was 6:30. In ninety minutes or so, Dan would return to the apartment and find her note. He would assume she was already on a plane.
So would her family. She’d sent a cowardly email to let them know she didn’t feel like talking but that she would see them in the U.P. tomorrow afternoon.
She’d so looked forward to joining them for the annual trip—Mom and Dad, May and Dan, Allie and Matt. Card gam
es, beer, and her father’s winterization checklist. One last bit of normalcy before next week’s frantic preparations for Allie and Matt’s wedding.
May had hoped to be making her way toward them tonight. Thinking about what she’d done on an airplane, in her car on the long drive north. Bracing herself for the future.
Instead, she was here. With Ben. Getting tacos.
He came to the table with a tray covered in small plates—one for each of eight soft tacos. He set it down and retrieved a second tray, containing bowls of guacamole, grilled onions, chopped jalapeño, and cilantro, as well as two small napkin-wrapped packets of cutlery.
She took a plate and watched as he unwrapped his silverware and used the fork to load his taco with some of everything.
“Eat,” he said. Half of his taco disappeared with his first bite. Steak juice ran down his chin, and she quickly handed him a napkin before he could do something awful like wipe the juice off with his sleeve.
May opened her taco and looked at the meat. It didn’t appear infested. Probably it would be fine. The guacamole seemed a little untrustworthy, so she skipped it and the rest of the toppings.
“Do they have salsa?”
“They have pico de gallo, but you don’t want it.”
“I don’t?”
“It’s not any good.”
May wished for some cheese, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask for it. She closed the taco and took a delicate bite.
“You can’t eat them like that.”
She swallowed. The meat tasted charred but juicy. Not bad, but nothing special. “Why not?”
He took her plate, opened her taco, and loaded it with toppings. “This is how you’re supposed to eat them.” When he had the taco dressed to his satisfaction, he lifted it and shoved it at her—not toward her hand, so she could take possession, but directly at her face.
May recoiled. Had no one ever told him that people hated having things shoved in their faces? Or that no one liked being told what to eat? It didn’t even occur to him that she might have allergies, or preferences, or some kind of aversion to—
