The setting was a small Mexican restaurant in our new neighborhood. It was our first time trying it, because that morning Scarlett said she wanted tacos, and while we draw the line at tacos for breakfast, the idea got into our heads, and neither Rob nor I felt like making dinner later. Actually, part of that was a lie. I don’t draw the line at tacos for breakfast, we just didn’t have any.

The restaurant was decorated in a super fun and kitschy way; collectibles like small dolls, head shots of 1940s film stars, and license plates from different states adorned every surface. Aside from the decor, the place was not at all full when we arrived, and they sat us right away, at a table for four in the front corner. I don’t use a real chair at restaurants these days (or at home, for that matter), so I just wheeled up to the table while Rob and Scarlett went around to the side closest to the window.

The service was ok, and my margarita was a little watery, but we were having a pretty good time. And then, 25 minutes or so after we sat down, a woman came up to the table. She was older, and possibly the owner or a manager. “Can you move to the other side of the table?” she asked me brusquely, gesturing to where Scarlett was sitting across from me. Read More>