Chilaquiles

It was Saturday, this morning.

There was no street parking. I was surprised - only two others in for breakfast. Another writer. Comics. Good, I hoped. I asked for his Instagram and did not read the cartoons in front of him, even though I can mask very well, so the risk was low.

He was a little embarrassed at having to share: ‘some of it is stupid.’ Me too. I just want to read it. Accept interest. I am only twenty-two and you are well into your thirties. I hope by then I will love myself. And my work.

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Ironic we both “work in tech”. Both whimpering gigolo supplicants to the same licentious dominatrix—the Revered Consistent Salary.

Our hearts are aware of the neglect.

I have not slept in 36 hours. I am shivering as wet cats do.

Chilaquiles will help, hopefully.

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There was no street parking, and I faltered and thought that I do not belong there. I parked instead two blocks away in: CHRISTCHURCHLOT NO PARKING SUNDAYS.

It was Saturday. A very pretty one. Probably 4500K. But cold. Easy to belong.

I would remove my jacket to coax sunlight onto my arms. Then I would shiver, chest cold. I would readorn my jacket to warm up. Then I would crave the sun.

It could have been easier.

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Chilaquiles were not on the menu. Huh. The girl was tittering to the other barista about a cute British exchange student. “He’s a physics major.”

I asked her what her favorite was.

She dodged: what do you like?

"Chilaquiles."

She said: "Oh—it’s Saturday."

"And?"

"We make them on Saturdays."

Huh.

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Fifteen minutes later: Chilaquiles. Not good. I rated them on my app where I review others’ livelihoods. It determined I believed an exact seven point eight. They were really a six.

I felt guilty; it hurts to review myself when I could just say: good, I am glad I did that.

Even if it was bland.

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I sat in my car again.

Chilaquiles. What luck.

CHRISTCHURCHLOT NO PARKING SUNDAYS. What luck.