by Erin Jamieson
Sour cream oozes from my Black Bean Chalupa Supreme, just like Brianna warned me it would.
I dab at my jeans with one of those whisper thin brown napkins they tossed in at the least moment, as if they looked at my smeared mascara and tangled hair and thought, Yeah, this woman’s a mess. Better throw in some extra.
The napkin tears and I’m left with a teardrop-shaped stain on my thigh. I pull into a spot at the back of the Taco Bell parking lot, set my dripping taco on the passenger side, and bury my head in my hands.
The first time I tried Taco Bell, I was nearly as much of a mess as I am now, only then my mascara was carefully applied, and I was wearing a cute little skirt instead of paint-splattered jeans. I can’t believe you’ve never tried Taco Bell, Brianna said, biting off each word like she was biting into a burrito.
I remember her order: two soft tacos, and a side of cinnamon twists to share. When we kissed for the first time, I tasted cinnamon and sugar and something deeper, something I’d never experienced before and never would again.
Ominous gray clouds shift in the sky. It’s only forty degrees, even though it’s April, and I shiver in my car. I should turn the heat on. No, I should go back, back to the funeral home, where I took off like the coward I am.
Instead, I pick up my taco and take a second bite. Warmth floods my throat and chest. It’s the last time I will ever eat Taco Bell, perhaps. Because every bite I take, I can only think of her. The constellation of freckles on her shoulders, the way her eyes creased when she smiled.
I stuff the remaining half of the taco back in the bag. Something taps my window.
Did someone follow me from the funeral home?
But no: it’s a tiny bird, maybe a robin. Brianna was in a bird watching kick a month before she died, and she kept trying to teach me different bird species on our hikes. I never listened.
The bird blinks back at me, like it’s waiting for something. Maybe it’s been fed leftovers from Taco Bell.
I swing the front door open, expecting the bird to fly away, but it just stays on my windshield, waiting.
I tear off a corner of the taco and spread it, like I’m spreading ashes. The bird doesn’t swoop to claim it, just watches me, as if this is the real memorial service, as if we alone understand what would have made her smile.
Erin Jamieson’s writing has been published in over eighty literary magazines, including two Pushcart Prize nominations. She is the author of four poetry chapbooks, including Fairytales (Bottle Cap Press. Her debut novel (Sky of Ashes, Land of Dreams) was published by Type Eighteen Books.
Emerge Literary Journal 