There’s something I have to tell you, something you should know. I haven’t been completely honest with you.
Remember the other night when you pulled that little crumpled ball of shiny foil from the trash can and asked me what it was? I know you suspected something, but I immediately mumbled something about “baking.” I think I told you it was aluminum foil and that I had lined a cookie sheet with it.
I’m sure you were wondering why I would be baking something that smelled of pork lard, not to mention the fact that I barely bake, and you know I’d never take the time and care to actually line a cookie sheet. But when I told you it was nothing, you believed me. You took my word because that’s they way you are, Benito. You are loving and trusting, and you tossed that crumpled ball of foil right back into the trash can.
Baby, I wasn’t completely telling the truth.
It was aluminum foil, but I hadn’t been baking. It wasn’t even my aluminum foil. It was foil that had wrapped a chicken taco and a chicken burrito. Oh god, there, I said it. That’s why it smelled like lard. That’s why the foil was greasy and had bits of cilantro and rice falling out of it.
Benito, I didn’t bake cilantro rice cookies.
I went to Pili’s Tacos. I had a chicken taco and a chicken burrito.
You’re mad now, and you have every right to be. But please, hear me out.
I am so sorry that I went to Pili’s. I won’t go into how I ended up there because it doesn’t really matter now. It only matters that it was a mistake for me to and I am so incredibly sorry that I betrayed you for just that single moment.
I wasn’t "looking." I don't need to "look." That’s not the kind of girl I am. You know me. And you know I’ve never looked for anything else except you, Benito. I’ve never looked for anything except your bright, cheerful, warm and happy orange and yellow sign glowing in the night, there on Santa Monica Boulevard at Federal Avenue. It just happened. I’ve never even seen Pili’s before, but in one idiotic moment, this little hole just popped out of the the wall along Santa Monica Boulevard out of nowhere and, I don’t know how else to say it, but I was an idiot. A horrible little hole in the wall just a few blocks west of you.
It was stupid. One time. Never again.
If it means anything to you at all, I didn’t enjoy it. The taco was bland. It just didn’t have the same passionate spice as you, my beloved Benito. It was covered in cilantro, and you know how much I hate cilantro. And the burrito? Gawd, it was so small. And even as small it was, it was so dry and monotonous that I couldn’t even finish it. Pili's was just physical. Something to quiet my physical pangs of hunger, but it didn’t satiate me the way you do. There was no feeling. No emotions. No love at Pili’s. Benito, you’re the one I love.
It doesn’t make it right, I know, just because I’m coming clean to you now about my one and only horrible moment with Pili’s. You’re mad and hurt, and it’s killing me that I did this. I will never do it again.
I love you. Please forgive me. Please.
Always and forever your 4 a.m. nacho lover like no other,