I’m getting a dirty burrito with hot sauce.
Partly because I only have five bucks,
partly because it matches the temperature— 
six days and it hasn’t dropped below 40.

The sign near the register is ‘90s hysteria:
Smoking Kills. I’d kill for a cigarette.
Been ages since I’ve seen one in the wild—
gone up in a puff of vape smoke.

The server looks like my ex, Kathy,
if she’d been deep-fried crispy. 
I’m into the sailor-sleeve tatts. 
Bet she’d sooner roll a blunt than a tortilla. 

She’s got these eyebrows. Real dark,
like a pair of caterpillars crawled up 
on her face to mate, then died there. 
You’ve gotta assume that’s a choice.

Chipotle drips fluro orange down my hand. 
I run my tongue up the webbing, taste
jalapeno and grit. Krispy Kathy
meets my gaze, caterpillars conjoined.

Oil collects in the twist of foil, pools 
in my gut. Funny how regret is chemical. 
Heading out, I make sure to spill a line of salt.
Insurance against those eyebrows.