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Author’s Note
It’s been a while since I’ve written a big ole slow-burning sappy as hell romance, and I think it’s long past due. Plenty of passion in this one too, but it takes a while to get there.
As usual, all characters are over the age of eighteen, and you should be too if you’re reading this.
Enjoy!
WaxPhilosophic
*
Cilantro and Onions
I wait patiently in line, eyes glued to the menu board overhead, even though I already know what I want. It’s not a terribly long line, but the food here is good enough that I always assume I’ll be waiting. Ahead of me, some other kids my age are laughing and shoving, making all sorts of additions and substitutions to their orders as the lone woman—the captivating cashier, cook, server, whose name I don’t even know—struggles to take it all down.
She hands them a number and they ramble off to find a table. It’s my turn.
“What can I get you?” she asks.
I fix my eyes on the counter top for the moment, wanting desperately to stare openly, to take her all in, but at the same time not wanting to appear creepy or rude. Decorum wins out.
“Two chicken tacos,” I say to the scarred and battered laminate of the counter. “With cilantro and onions.”
She mutters an okay, and I sneak a quick look at her face before dropping my gaze again.
In my mind I still see her—nut-brown eyes, mottled with flecks of amber around the outside. Cheeks beautifully sculpted and slightly rosy, though if the color comes naturally or from the heat of working in the kitchen, I do not know. I do know she’s smiling.
My heart skips a beat.
“You sure you don’t want anything else?” she asks. “Cheese? Tomatoes? Sour cream?”
I shake my head. “Cilantro and onions. And water to drink, please.”
With guilty pleasure, I lift my gaze enough to watch her slender fingers punching the buttons of the cash register that separates us—proprietor and customer, beautiful middle-aged woman and hopeless young romantic.
I fixate on her fingernails as she is efficiently punching in the price of my order. Her nails are nothing like my mother’s, expertly sculpted and bathed in a coat of shiny red once a week without fail, or even my own, that are kept short by a nervous habit I have had since childhood. The woman operating the register has nails that are trimmed and neat, devoid of polish, the cuticles a little ragged in places.
I notice the beginnings of a callous on her left index finger—a rough patch, the skin a little darker shade of brown. These are a working woman’s hands, honest hands, the kind of hands that tell you the truth when you hold them.
“Two tacos, cilantro and onions,” she reads back, with an almost musical lilt to her speech. “Four twenty-five.”
I pass a worn five over the counter and lift my gaze long enough to enjoy another quick smile she casts in my direction.
I hold out some hope that I might get to feel her fingers brush my skin as she hands me the change that is due, but my luck today has ended, and the three coins fall into my hand with a muted clink. She slides over a plastic table marker adorned with the number nineteen, and my brief command of her attention has come to a close.
I sigh and wander off to find a place to sit. I end up on one side of a table meant for two and place my number in the center.
The group of kids who were ahead of me in line are now on the other side of the tiny dining room. They’re being loud and obnoxious, throwing straw wrappers at each other, knocking over one of the hot sauce bottles that adorns their table. For some reason they find the toppled bottle to be incredibly hilarious and continue in hysterics even as one of the more conscientious members of the group rights it again.
I try my best to ignore them.
A few minutes later, I’m watching their food being unloaded and passed around from a large tray. Then it is my turn. I try not to make it obvious that I am watching the proprietor as she moves, making her way over to my table. My gaze traces the fabric of her apron and the way it molds itself to the curve of her hips.
“Two chicken tacos. Cilantro and onions.” She sets the plate in front of me along with a glass of water, and smiles. “Enjoy.”
“Thank you.” I manage to squeak out as she scurries off, back to a counter that once again has a new cluster of customers waiting.
*
I’ve been coming to this taqueria almost everyday after school for several weeks now. It’s always the same lone woman running the place, and it’s always the same mix of customers—a smattering of kids like me from various schools, and groups of first shift clock-punchers. The former, laughing, horsing around, and regularly toppling bottles of hot sauce. The latter often arriving in worn or soiled clothing, laborer’s clothes, looking tired, but always finding the energy to exchange a few kind words with the proprietor. I’ve been making a concerted casino oyna effort to fit in with the latter.
As part of my desire to fit in, my order is always the same—two tacos, cilantro and onions. I’m not a taco purist or anything, but after my first few stops here I quickly noticed that cilantro and onions is how the regulars always order. Then they squeeze a little lime over the top and add some hot sauce when their order arrives. It must be more authentic or something.
Personally, I wouldn’t mind the stray tomato every now and again, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. Unlike me, I’m pretty sure that the woman running the place most likely is a taco purist, and it gives her a certain satisfaction when her customers order in the traditional way. She tends to smile and relax just a bit, as if this simple combination of toppings brings a certain order to her universe.
Or maybe it’s that ordering cilantro and onions makes me a one of the regulars, and that’s why I am rewarded with a smile. I honestly don’t know, but I do know that her smiles are a large part of the reason I keep coming back. That and the fact that thirty minutes a day in this little hole in the wall restaurant sure as hell beats the charade that I’ve got going on at home.
I hear the crash of another toppled hot sauce bottle and look over at the table of kids who are now throwing used napkins at each other in addition to the general idiocy that has pervaded their time here. Fortunately, they’re soon up and making their way to the door.
I see the mess they’ve left a mess on their table as I finish my last bite. I look at the woman, behind the counter now, with a line of people, three deep. Before I leave, I clean up two tables, my own and the idiots’. As I set the last hot sauce bottle upright, I get a fatherly smile from one of the laborers in grubby clothes. The proprietor is too busy at the grill to even notice my deed.
On my way out, I drop my three coins in the jar labeled ‘tips’.
*
Horchata
Life at home is so insanely bland that I sometimes want to gouge my eyes out just for a change of pace. It’s not a bad life. My parents are divorced, but whose aren’t these days. My mom and my step-dad are both career-driven Gen X’ers who are progressive enough to be accepting of my orientation, but obsessed enough with climbing the corporate ladder that they’re rarely home for dinner.
My biological father has a pretty cool girlfriend involved in the local music scene. He pays his child support on time and she occasionally gets me back stage at some rather fabulous shows. Really, I shouldn’t be complaining.
But it’s so predictable.
“Maybe you should take a gap year,” my mother once suggested. “Go off and see the world before you have to settle down and work for a living.”
Work for a living. I think about that as I sit alone at a table for two, numbered plastic placard perched in the center of the table, awaiting my order. Sitting in meetings, dressed in designer suits, gesturing at whiteboards—is that really working? I am so withdrawn into my thoughts that I miss my chance to sneak a peek at the proprietor in her apron as she approaches.
“Two chicken tacos. Cilantro and onions.” She sets the plate in front of me before unloading a tall glass of milky-white liquid. “And one horchata.”
Her smile seems particularly bright this afternoon.
“I didn’t order—” I start.
“Try it,” she says. “It’s good.” And she is gone.
Before I can open my mouth again to explain that I always order water to drink, and that she must have me mixed up with someone else, she is back at the register, where a new group of customers is waiting.
I pull the glass closer. I catch a whiff of cinnamon and vanilla as I unwrap my straw. It does smell tempting.
The taste is beyond description—heavenly almost. I want to tell her how good it is, and maybe ask what’s in it that makes me want to drink nothing else for the remainder of my life. Horchata and her smiles—wouldn’t that be a way to spend my gap year.
I picture her with the glass of horchata, setting it down in front of me, but this time taking the empty seat across from me. I muster the courage to take her hand, and just like I’ve imagined, it’s warm and inviting. And in my vision, she’s smiling.
I look up from my brief reverie and she’s busy tending to the grill again, so I leave without a word. On my way out, I notice some hot sauce bottles out of place, so I straighten them up.
*
“I want to work here,” I say. This time I’m looking her in the eye as I stand at the counter instead of studying the scratched laminate top. I hope this goes well, because I’ve summoned about a month’s worth of courage to get to this point. “I’m eighteen, I’m taking a year off before college, and I want to work here.”
“Hmm,” she says, her eyes bright. “You like the horchata that much?”
“What? No. I mean yes. But that’s not why I want to—”
“I can’t slot oyna afford to pay you. I’m sorry.”
“Um…” I drop my gaze to the counter, my bravery spent.
“The usual? Two chicken tacos?”
“Yeah.”
She doesn’t ask what I want on them, so I don’t even get to see her smile when I ask for cilantro and onions.
*
The next time I stop in my favorite hole in the wall taqueria, I see that the band of idiots has been here ahead of me, making a mess as usual. I shake my head and collect the trash from their empty table, putting all the hot sauce bottles in their proper places.
One of the regulars, and older gentleman, assumes I am an employee and asks me for a refill on his water. I smile and take his glass to the counter.
The proprietor sees me coming. “What are you doing?” she asks.
“The gentleman at table twelve would like a refill.”
“You don’t work here.”
“Apparently, he thinks I do.”
She huffs a small sigh and takes the glass from my hand. “I told you, I can’t pay you.” She sets the full glass on the counter.
“I didn’t ask you to.” I move to take the glass, but she pulls it back.
“Working off the books. That’s illegal,” she says.
“So are half the customers in here, I bet. Shall I ask for a show of green cards?”
She struggles to find a comeback for that, and if there is one, it escapes her.
“There’s a line at the register,” I say. “And the gentleman at table twelve is looking awfully parched. Let me take his water to him.”
She shakes her head, but a smile crosses her lips as she slides the water glass over to me before trotting back to the register to ring up another order.
I let out the breath I’ve been holding.
The rest of our evening together plays out in much the same way. She scurries around as usual, taking orders and assembling them in the kitchen. I keep to the dining room, clearing away plates and trash, straightening the hot sauce selection, refilling drinks.
Every so often I sneak a peek at her, watching the efficiency of her movements at the register, the way her apron hugs her hips as she bring orders to her customers, the rippling of her arm muscles as she unloads the trays. But what I particularly enjoy, is that every time she catches me gazing her her direction, she flashes a little smile my way. I notice the way her eyes crinkle at the corners and I can’t help but grin in return.
The rush is over and things begin to slow. Before I can sneak out the door and avoid her chastising me about the legalities of employer-employee relations, she fills a to-go cup with horchata and snaps a lid on it.
“The young woman bussing tables tonight looks awfully parched.” She thrusts the cup in my direction. “Will you make sure she gets this?”
I grin and chew my lip to avoid letting out the snort of a laugh that’s welling up inside me. It doesn’t work very well.
“I’m Gabriela,” she says.
“Angela.”
“Nice to meet you, Angela.” She clutches my hand in hers. Her grip is firm, but not crushing, and her fingers feel just as I had always imagined they would—skin a little rough, but a touch that is tender and inviting. She is smiling.
My heart skips a beat.
*
Angel
We have come to an arrangement, Gabriela and I. Each afternoon after school, I come in and order two chicken tacos with cilantro and onions, and water to drink. And each time I do, I get a horchata instead of water. There’s never any charge.
When I finish eating, I stick around and help her through the evening rush, bussing tables, refilling drinks. I’m getting pretty good at it, and several of the regulars know me by name. Except, they call my Angel instead of Angela, and always smile when they thank me. I have to admit, I kind of like it.
Tonight, when I walk in, it’s much busier than a usual Friday afternoon. It’s like everyone decided to eat early, and bring a friend. Nearly every table is full and there is a line three deep at the counter. I glance over at Gabriela as she slings another trio of tacos onto a plate. Her hair is pulled back as usual, but it’s starting to come loose in a few places. There’s a light sheen of perspiration on the back of her neck.
I pause to take in the scene. If she didn’t look so harried, I’d almost say she looks sexy—like she’s overwhelmed in a moment of passion. I shiver just a bit as the thought quickly plays out in my mind—Gabriela, her hair askew, back arched, with the tender skin of her neck exposed as I lightly touch my fingers to her.
But instead of sharing my fantasy, I grab an apron and tie it around my waist. “Which table?” I say.
“Number seven.” She thrusts the steaming plate in my direction and turns her attention to the customer at the counter, waiting to order.
Our night continues much the same way until about seven-thirty, when the pace finally begins to slacken.
“What happened?” I ask. “Are you running a special or canlı casino siteleri something?”
“No,” she says. Gabriela moves to the sink to wash her hands and then dabs at her brow with a moistened paper towel. “I’m as surprised as you are. Maybe it’s a full moon.”
I look at her sideways for a second, until she breaks out into a wide grin.
“I don’t know what it is. But I’ve learned not to complain when business is good.” She’s moved back to the grill and has put down some tortillas to warm. “The usual?” she asks.
I look into her eyes—they are bright and happy eyes and I can almost see the dollar signs from tonight’s rush coalescing in those eyes if I gaze long enough. And the color in her cheeks, I decide it’s definitely from the heat of the kitchen. Business is good and she’s happy. It makes me happy. It makes me want to wrap my arms around her and press my lips to hers, to see if I can taste that happiness. I wonder if it tastes like cilantro and onions.
The sizzle of chicken reaches my ears and I inhale a familiar, savory mix of spices.
“You don’t have to—” I start.
“Angel,” she says, and squeezes my hand.
She called me Angel. She’s holding my hand.
“I couldn’t have done it without you tonight.” She lets my hand go as quickly as she took it. “Besides, I’m making something for myself, too. Grab a couple drinks and find a table. It’ll just be another minute.”
For the first time since I started working here I sit down at a table for two knowing I won’t be eating alone. Gabriela is moving briskly in my direction with two steaming plates. This time I am feeling bold enough to watch the sway of her hips without averting my eyes.
She called me Angel. She held my hand.
I slide one of the tall glasses of horchata over to her as she deposits our plates on this cozy little table for two. We eat in silence for a time. It is a comfortable silence, like old friends who know each other well enough that idle chit-chat is no longer necessary.
I watch her movements—the way she pinches her taco to keep it from falling apart, the way her cheeks pull inward as she sucks at the straw in her drink. I even envision myself dabbing my napkin to catch the bit of hot sauce that has found its way to the corner of her mouth.
I want to reach over the table and take her hand in mine. Anything to touch her. But I do none of these things. I simply enjoy our quiet company.
“I’m serious when I say I couldn’t have done this without you. I mean that.” Now she’s reaching her hand across the table to cover mine. She gives me a squeeze. “You really are an angel.”
In that one moment, my confidence surges.
She called me Angel. She’s holding my hand.
I lean over the table, placing my hand gently behind her neck, and I kiss her.
I am expecting fireworks.
I get a confused look instead.
“Angela, I’m sorry. I—”
I don’t get a chance to hear the rest. I’m too busy bolting for the door.
*
I spend the next several days successfully avoiding Gabriela and her restaurant, as I wallow in my self-pity. But it’s not long before I feel the pull again. I don’t know if it’s that I’m becoming mature enough to realize I can’t leave things as they are, with this rift between Gabriela and me, when we have built so much already. Or maybe I really do miss my daily taco fix that much. Whatever it is, I’m soon darkening her door again.
She is at the counter taking care of some bookkeeping. It’s early enough in the afternoon that there are no customers waiting. She peers out at me, looking as enticing as ever, and I get to see her brown eyes wavering for just a moment before I drop my gaze. I stare at the counter as I approach. I can’t look at her. It’s taking all my energy just to shuffle my feet forward.
“Angel,” she says.
With my finger, I trace out a scratch in the laminate counter top, a deep and ugly scar that mars the otherwise smooth surface. I don’t say anything. My throat is too tight and dry.
“Angel, I’m so sorry—”
“Can I still work here?” I manage to croak out. “I mean… You don’t have to pay me. For tacos? I really miss your tacos.”
I feel the gentle press of her finger under my chin, lifting my gaze to hers. Her eyes are moist in the corners, and I want to dab them dry. My stomach knots. I feel like this is my fault.
Gabriela looks out at the dining room. There are only two customers, and they appear to be stragglers from the lunch crowd, who have already finished eating and are now just socializing.
“Will you come with me, please?” She takes my hand and I follow, though this time I am trembling slightly at her touch. She says nothing further and leads me to the back of the kitchen near the delivery door that also serves as the emergency exit.
“I’ve owned this restaurant for sixteen years, Angel. Before that, it belonged to my parents.” She’s still holding my hand, but looking at the floor now, and I sense that I am not the only one afflicted by the tremors. “This restaurant is all I’ve ever known.”
I squeeze her hand gently, in what I hope is a silent gesture of reassurance, but I have no words to offer.
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