June 4
I backed the car out, watching in the mirrors in case a crazed ex-husband lept from the shadows to accost us. He didn’t. Still, neither of us spoke until we had reached the street, turned right, and driven safely for a couple of blocks.
“What do you like to eat?” I asked Sarah.
“Anything,” she said. “To tell you the truth, I’m not very hungry. Whatever you want.”
“Food will do you good,” I insisted. “What do you like?”
She sighed, and didn’t answer at first. We’d travelled several more blocks in heavy traffic before she finally replied.
“Mexican,” she said at last. “I could really use a quesadilla and a beer.”
“Is there a place you like?” I asked.
“Ernesto’s,” she said. “It’s a little hole in the wall on Normandie.”
She gave me directions, and I followed them. In twenty minutes, we’d parked in the tiny parking lot between a beat-up Chevy truck and a Ford Taurus with a “¡Yo Soy Zacatecas!” bumper sticker. This, I guessed, would be comidas Mexicana muy autentico.
Inside, it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. Sarah led me to a table in the corner, over which a small light ensconced in a fixture with darkened glass strove hopelessly to light our surroundings.
An old Hispanic woman brought us menus, chips, and salsa. She nodded to Sarah, who smiled and nodded back.
“¿Bebidas?” the old woman asked.
“Agua,” I replied.
“Cerveza Tecate con limon,” Sarah said. “Gracias.”
In a moment, the same woman brought a glass of water for me and a can of Tecate beer with a slice of lemon for Sarah. I gave a curious look.
“Long day,” Sarah said. “Don’t read anything into it.”
“Never,” I said, trying not to. “What’s good here?”
“Everything I’ve ever had,” Sarah replied. “What do you like?”
“Everything,” I said. “But I’ll probably settle for the carnitas tacos.”
“Good choice,” she said. When the waitress reappeared, Sarah ordered for both of us in Spanish.
The waitress retreated. Sarah took a chip and dipped it into the dish of salsa. I followed suit. The salsa packed a punch, and I tried not to let on that my mouth was burning.
“Have another chip,” Sarah suggested, as a tear ran down my cheek. “It’ll absorb the hot.”
I did, and she was right. My mouth burned slightly less after that.
“Listen,” I said. “I don’t want to pry, but I do want to help.”
“You can’t help,” she said. “This is my mess, and I’ve got to figure my own way out.”
“Maybe you underestimate me,” I said. “I'm here for you. You’re not alone.”
Sarah gave me a friendly, slightly condescending look. “I know,” she said. But I knew she was lying.
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