Carl always comments on this.
Hey, I like knowing what I'm putting in my mouth.
A fishbowl of a margarita sits before me almost empty.
My baby is crawling on the floor, not a real floor, a dirt and some grass floor.
We're sitting under an umbrella hiding from the sun, but the heat is pounding down on us like a wave, which just makes me more thirsty.
My plate of enchiladas looks like a frog I once dissected.
Some of the kids in class made disgusted sounds while I stayed quiet pulling on little tendons and finding treasures like a tiny frog heart.
There are three bottles of salsa in front of me that I've never seen before.
I only use Tabasco at home.
I’m not at home.
There's no tablecloth under my arms, just wood, dry with splinters I’ve pressed down with my elbows.
Christopher is in diapers and some super hero t-shirt Carl gave him.
He looks at home excavating rocks like they were diamonds.
I'm ready to jump into the pool and cool off with a Tecate and a slow drip of tequila and lime.
Carl's hair is long.
And he smells like just my brand of sweat.
His plate is a twin of mine with cockroaches piled on the edge.
He's telling me a story I've heard before but I don't care.
His deep voice activates me and I want to kiss him hard right here in this restaurant.
I'm pretty sure we won't get kicked out, but I know my laugh is loud, and my kisses are obvious, and I'm not drunk enough yet.
The guy behind the counter is listening to a transistor radio that plays Mariachi in mono.
He's looking our way.
His t-shirt and khakis look clean and pressed, while my dress is flowered and wrinkled.
Carl picked it out for me, steering me away from black, saying black will soak up the sun, and make me feel hotter.
I look down at the purple flowers.
Black is home.