Page 217 of Bad Prince

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Golden.

Alive.

I grab my bag, my laptop, step out.

The heat hits me first.

Then the smell.

God.

Grilled meat.

Garlic.

Onions sizzling on a flat top.

Cilantro.

Lime.

Fresh tortillas.

It hits something deep in my chest.

Something I didn’t realize was starving.

I push the door open.

A little bell chimes overhead.

Inside, it’s small.

Crowded.

Plastic tablecloths in bright colors.

A TV in the corner playing a Spanish soap opera too loud.

Kids laughing somewhere in the back.

A woman behind the counter calling out orders in rapid Spanish.

For the first time all day?—

I exhale.

“Hola, mija,” a waitress says, appearing beside me with a soft smile. “¿Mesa para uno?”

Hi, sweetheart. Table for one?

“Sí,” I answer automatically.

Yes.

She grabs a menu, leads me to a small table by the window.

I don’t even look at it.

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