alvarado's

It's a little hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant on Davis Boulevard. Just to get in the place is a bit of a trick because you have to drive all the way around back to get to the parking lot.
So there I am, ten till three in the afternoon, ordering myself a couple enchiladas with rice and beans. Mexican food's been my default since moving down south, and my default off a Mexican menu is always chicken enchiladas with queso. The cashier kindly accepts my request for cheese instead of the traditional red enchilada sauce.
I settle down with my Pepsi in a booth near a window. (I've always got to be by a window. I think it's something about me and daydreaming... it doesn't work as well when all you have to look at is brick-shaped floor tile and Formica tabletops.) Someone said this place used to be a Dairy Queen, but the windows are now bordered with thick burnt-orange paint. I realize I could never bring my family here. Maybe my husband, but never my family. It's too personal. Too much like the dirt roads on which I used to drive home from work. Now, in the city, it's a new place to get away. No one's going to talk to me here. I might get a few stares, maybe a hello or two, but mostly just privacy... a place to relax.
But not today. Because I've just remembered I've got to be to work in ten minutes, and -- "no thanks I don't need salsa" -- I've just gotten my food. I barely dig into one enchilada -- burning my mouth in the process -- when I realize I've gotta fly if I'm not going to be late. I scarf down some rice and beans. The rest has to go in the trash.
I feel sick.
But it's not the food. The food was great. It's those eyes behind the counter, that Hispanic woman who took my specialized order, watching me throw that food away.
I rush out, too embarrassed to say anything.