She slowly slid down the booth at the taqueria. Her toes reached for the lip of the bench on the opposing side, but her legs were just a few inches too short for the restful comfort of the other side.
She had placed her order for a burrito to go. Wearing flats, black tights, a polka dot skirt and a light coat, the woman in her mid-late 20s stood for a while staring at nothing in particular before deciding to sit.
With her back to the counter in the taqueria with five booths, she stared onto the glistening street. It had drizzled earlier in the evening. It was the sporadic rain that makes you question if someone spat off a roof and hit you, or if it is, in fact, raining. After enough spittle from heaven, the traffic and street lights reflected in the street speckled with pot holes.
She ran her fingers through her wavy, shoulder-length, chestnut-brown hair before sliding another inch down the booth bench. She flipped her hair from the right to the left, then back.
“Burrito dinner, to go.” the cashier announced, looking in her direction.
But she was lost in her thoughts, her toes getting ever closer to relaxation after a long Monday.
The cashier moved closer to her from behind the counter and repeated, “Miss, burrito to go.”
Bending her knees and sliding back in the seat, she sat up and rose from the bench to pickup the plastic bag with the Styrofoam container. The cashier smiled as he handed over the dinner special.
She headed out into the windy night looking for a place to rest her feet.