Fluffy(22)

“Because Perky and I decided so.”

“That isn’t a good enough reason!”

“Since when?”

She’s got me there.

I point to the screen and cover my lips with a librarian’s finger. For some reason, she actually shuts up. It works, but now the movie is just going to be two hours of me squirming in my seat, knowing I’m in for a lecture when we’re done watching oiled-up, naked men’s bodies gyrating in fifteen-foot high technicolor.

Okay. So maybe Fiona’s lecture isn’t why I’ll be squirming. Whatever.

Two hours later, I’m proven right. The second the credits start to roll, Fiona chugs the last of her water and says, “Text him now and accept.”

“Come on! I’m trying to enjoy the movie score, you fun sucker.”

“It’s nothing but shouting the word ‘bitch’ in twenty-seven different languages.”

“It’s art.”

“You’re deflecting.”

“That is a form of art, too.”

“You’ve certainly elevated it to one,” she says to me, bright and smiling. Fiona has this way of staring at people with those big, round eyes that are a little too interested in the world. Most of us have our friendly, outgoing edges filed off brutally in middle school.

Fiona was ahead of her time, emotionally darker than the rest of us at a time when optimism was rewarded with scorn and therefore being cynical was justified, but somehow she reclaimed that attentiveness. A pure spirit.

Maybe the four-year-olds she teaches did it.

What it’s created, though, is a deeply dangerous friendship pit I fall into over and over: she can be blunt without being threatening until it’s too late.

Caught.

“Just because you and Perky think I should take this job isn’t good enough. Why? I could lose out on a much better job opportunity if I tie myself up in this one.”

“Are you tied up by other men right now?”

“Fi! I expect Perky to do the double entendre sex-joke crap all the time, but not you.”

“Are you offended?”

“No! If I were offended, I wouldn’t be friends with her. I just didn’t expect it from you.” I giggle through an image of being tied up by Will Lotham.

And suddenly, I’m not giggling. I’m a little swoony.

Standing quickly, I hustle Fiona out of our row and up the incline to the exit of the movie theater. The sun is bright and shining, forcing us both to fish around in our handbags for sunglasses. Without any conversation whatsoever, we turn right, then left, and find ourselves in front of SushiMe and a little Mexican restaurant we both love, Taco Taco Taco, known to the locals as Taco Cubed.

Fiona hesitates, leaning toward the sushi place. “So, Mal — ”

“Taco special!” I call back as I walk toward the scent of cumin and affordable. Fiona’s shoulder’s sag. Why is her sigh filled with frustration? Weird. She loves tacos, even if her choices leave much to be desired.

The line is long at Taco Cubed, filled with people who work regular, full-time jobs grabbing whatever bit of hope and luxury they can in their hour respite from being under the thumb of The Man.

That’s what I tell myself as I peel off six of my last dollars and buy the dirt-cheap daily taco special.

“Hey,” I say to her as we wait for our orders, “it’s Monday. Don’t you have to teach today?”

“In-service day. We spent two hours talking about new educational standards and agreed to meet back up at five tonight for classroom cleaning.”

“I could have been spared the high-pressure sales pitch if it weren’t for that?”

“No. You would have had Perky pressure you at some point.”

I shudder.

“See? I’m doing you a favor,” Fiona says in that smooth, melodic voice. Our two taco specials get shoved up on the serving counter, crispy, cheesy goodness in brown plastic baskets lined with parchment paper, sour cream and guacamole exactly where they should be.

On the side.

There is a perfect ratio of sour cream, guac, and salsa on a shredded chicken tostada. No one can make it happen for you. Many restaurants have tried. All have failed. Only the mouth knows its own pleasure, and calibration like Taco Heaven cannot be mass produced.

It simply cannot.

Taco Heaven is a sensory explosion of flavor that defies logic. First, you have to eye the amount of spiced meat, shredded lettuce, chopped tomatoes, and tomatillos. You must consider the size and crispiness of the shells. Some people–I call them blasphemers–like soft tacos. I am sitting across from Exhibit A.

We won’t talk about soft tacos. They don’t make it to Taco Heaven. People who eat soft tacos live in Taco Purgatory, never fully understanding their moral failings, repeating the same mistakes again and again for all eternity.

Like Perky and dating.

Once you inventory your meat, lettuce, tomato, and shell quality, the real construction begins. Making your way to Taco Heaven is like a mechanical engineer building a bridge in your mouth. Measurements must be exact. Payloads are all about formulas and precision. One miscalculation and it all fails.

Taco Death is worse than Taco Purgatory, because the only reason for Taco Death is miscalculation.

And that’s all on you.

“Oh, God,” Fiona groans through a mouthful of abomination. “You’re doing it, aren’t you?”