Hungover. So incredibly, terribly hungover. She let her basic side show last night, mixing watermelon vodka and Crystal Light lemonade. A far cry from the whiskey and craft beer she’s become accustomed to in recent months. And so, our heroine is dealing with the wake of nausea and misery left to her by her remarkable ability to be a basic white bitch.
A beautiful SoCal day can not be wasted on the poor decisions of the night before, however. Hangover be damned. Behooded, sweat pantsed, and day old make up caked on her face, looking more basic than ever, she drags herself out of the house and down the street to find something to soak up the awful inside of her. Looking as rough as she feels, grump and hungry, she crosses her arms over her chest and realizes she isn’t even wearing a bra. Basic bitch has turned to straight up hot mess. Rolling her eyes, she continues on, the bright San Diego sun and the noisy traffic compounding the hanger eating away at her.
It’s Southern California. She can’t throw a rock without hitting a Mexican place, so she stumbles into the first one that’s open. The middle aged Mexican man at the counter gives her a knowing smile; he’s seen her type before. She mumbles the little bit of Spanish she knows, “Uno momento, por favor. Gracias.” She’s pretty sure she could die right then and there. The guy just laughs at her and goes about whatever the fuck it was he was doing. “Fuck you laughing at?” she thinks completely irrationally. She knows it, too, and gives the guy who’s none the wiser an apologetic smile before finally diverting her full attention to the overwhelming menu up top.
“Too many goddamn fucking decisions. God fucking dammit. Why the hell do they have to have so many fucking options. Holy fucking hell.” she thinks to herself. Our heroine is kind of a bitch when she’s hungry. Slowly, under her breath, she reads the name of every single fucking burrito. “Fuck carne asada…you can go to hell pollo asada. Hmmm, Cali burrito? You are my one true love, but you fuck right hell off. Goddamn, I am so fucking hungry. Shit. Oh fuck, fish burrito? Hell yeah, fish fucking burrito.” She looks like a homeless person off her meds, but finally she takes a step towards the counter and places an order for one fish burrito.
She sits down at a table, some telenovela or other brightly colored and overly dramatic is playing from the small television mounted above the Bible that is opened to the first chapter of the book of Proverbs. “Great, first I get judged at by the guy behind the counter and now the fucking literature is telling me what a goddamn fool I am.” Resting her head down, she hopes that either death, sleep, or her burrito will hurry the fuck up. She doesn’t care which. She’s not picky. Ten minutes seems like an eternity, but finally the burrito beats both death and sleep to get to her.
Greedily, she grabs her food from the counter and makes her way to a table in the corner, back to the rest of the world. Currently, she hates everyone and everything and wants them to be aware of it. They are not invited to her little corner of the world right now. Slouched in her chair, shoulders hunched, she picks it up. The weight and warmth of it in her hand cause her to sit up a little bit straighter. The hangover is still there with a vengeance, but somehow the anticipation of what’s in front of her dulls it just the slightest. Her mood lifts, just a little bit. She is throwing around fewer “fucks” in her head than previously. With what little physical energy she can muster, she pulls the hot, steaming burrito to her lips, parted in both desire and need.
First bite. Mostly just freshly heated tortilla, delicious regardless. Slowly, warmth makes it way down her throat, to her belly, and reaches all the way to her toes. She starts to tingle as the first hints of life start to awaken in her.
Second bite. The beautiful comings together of fresh lettuce and pico de gallo. A marriage so simple in design, and yet flavors so complex and sensual. She savors this bite a little longer, letting these beautifully basic ingredients linger an extra few seconds. She swallows and, against her will, lets out a little moan of pleasure. Startled by herself, she takes a quick look around, but no one is paying her any mind.
Third bite. The fish, so lightly, so perfectly battered, makes its grand appearance. She takes a lime and gently squeezes, not wanting to overpower the perfect taste of the delicate filling. Flaky and warm, the salty taste ocean, not to powerfully, invades her senses. She closes her eyes, no longer in exhaustion, but from the satisfaction of a sated hanger.
Her mood continues to lighten the further her mouth explores the depths of the hulking piece in her in hand. The salsa and crema, however perfectly rationed, slowly seep over the side. Playfully, she flicks her tongue up and down the side of the burrito, lapping up the creamy mixture, savoring it on her tongue, and swallowing it. She smiles to herself as she licks a stray drop from her finger, and finishes the rest of her meal.
She sits back in her chair for a few moments, the sun shining through the window seeming less harsh, the colors on the telenovela, less garish. The memory of the taste of her meal slowly fades, as she smiles in contentment. Maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t the best burrito she’s ever eaten. However, in that moment, she had never thought anything had ever been so beautiful. With that thought in the back of her head, she clears her table, walks outsides, and heads home towards a desperately needed nap.