Wednesday, January 20, 2010

taqueria, a story

The corn tortillas taste like purple in my mouth, and I don’t know how to fix us. I don’t know why I had to talk about him or why you had to mention her, but I do know that if we keep rehashing it over and over and over again, the particles of what we were will become sawdust.

My chip, like a shard of glass, pierces my gum with its jagged corner. The pain is so jarring, my whole body convulses. My eyes tear in response to the sensation, with the taste of blood exploding in my mouth. I sit quietly as my nerve endings shriek, and my body begins to repair itself.

You sit there and say nothing.

I stand up and take our trays to the counter. As I unload the grotesque remains of our half eaten burritos, beans and cheese like confetti on the grease-laden paper, I glance over at you, and I can see the end. You don’t care that I’m hurting, and I don’t care that you don’t care.

A preposterous pile of napkins remains on our table as we get up to go. You always take too many napkins. You help me into my coat, out of habit, the way your father had taught you.

The taqueria smells like meat and makes me want to vomit. My mouth is still pulsing, and you have still not broken the whirling quiet around us. I don’t know what’s worse: your repetition or your silence.

We walk together down Valencia, but we are getting nowhere.

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