I enjoyed the place. Tiny sparrows pecked at crumbs at the feet of the diners. I crushed a chip and threw it to the birds. I luxuriated in the low mumble and laughter of others around me. The jazz and the shade from the burning sun and the warm breeze transported me to a contentment I hadn’t known off the court since before I let Michelle move in. “Excuse me,” Darcy barked to the waitress. “This isn’t right. I ordered blue corn tortillas, not white. And I wanted fruit instead of black beans. And I want extra sour cream.” Darcy thrust her plate into the hands of the waitress, who mumbled an apology and strode off. Darcy rolled her eyes and wiped sweat from her forehead. Ava-Suzanne picked anemically at her food, piercing tiny pieces with her fork and then smelling them before returning each bit to the plate, rejected. Her food looked as if she had taken a big spoon and stirred it all into a quagmire. I ate of mine, relishing everything. It was hot and delicious and spicy and pleasingly Tex-Mexy.
