Anna.
Even though I have thick clothing on, the cold air still drifts through, making me wrap my arms around myself as we walk towards the food truck down Brea Avenue.
The truck, painted in yellow and black, comes into view with a big taco on the roof, illuminated by lights that indicate it’s open.
The music from the club across the road is slightly muted, but when the door opens, it becomes louder, forcing me to say, “Hi, Leo,” louder than I normally would.
Jack glances from me to the middle-aged man wearing a hair net and a white apron. His eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles down at me.
“Sweet Anna, your usual?”
Joe has been here since I was eighteen, maybe even longer. I used to come here when I craved something other than Mom’s cooking. Yes, tacos may be greasy, but they’r
