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 t
