Page 62 of Strelitzias in Spring

27

Wolf

“What is this place?” Serena shakes her hair out as she places her helmet on the handle of my bike.

“Best taco place in Jersey.” I nod toward the food truck I discovered three years ago. If it were brick and mortar, I’d describe it as a “hole-in-the-wall,” but since it’s mobile and leaves every night at ten, I’ll call it a hidden gem. She eyes me skeptically, disbelief warring with excitement over my statement.

“The best tacos I’ve had in this state are fromRanchero.” She pauses, looking at her surroundings as we stand in line atComida de Los Vivos, or Comida for short. I was starving after a gym session one night and in no mood to go to Starbound or some other bar in the area, so I stopped by the food truck with historically long lines. One bite was all it took for me to realize that any other tacos I’ve eaten in the past paled in comparison.

“Just trust me, okay?”

She looks at me, tilting her head in consideration before shrugging and staring at the menu on the side of the truck. I watch her closely, taking in her features as she reads the offerings. Just like every time I’m in her presence, the quiet, understated grace and beauty she exudes astound me.

“Oh, they havepozole. I haven’t had that since I visited my grandparents before COVID.”

“That’s the stew, right?”

“Soup or stew, depending on whom you ask. Myabuelatops it with a lot of cabbage, radishes, and avocado. I’m excited to try this one.”

“Where do your grandparents live?”

“Mexico. My mom moved to the United States for school, but her family is in Puebla. My dad was born in the States, but his mother is from Mexico City. His dad was American and in the military; they met shortly after my Abuela Pia immigrated with her parents in the sixties. His family was Spanish, from Spain. That’s where my last name comes from.”

I nod, listening to her as she talks about her heritage and background. We spend the twenty minutes in line talking about her summers spent in Mexico before she started to take on more school responsibilities, and I tell her about my love of jiu-jitsu, how Celeste and I started in karate before transitioning to grappling, and then MMA.

“If you don’t mind me asking, why are you walking away from MMA? I don’t know much about it, but aren’t you, well, good at it?”

I look away from her face, letting the bittersweet emotions crash over me as I think about the end of my fighting career. “Tattooing, art, it’s my life. Jiu-jitsu was always an outlet, and I used to love to train with Celeste and a few of my other buddies at my original gym. When Jedd, my coach, recruited me for MMA, I did it solely for the purses; you can win a shit ton of money in the circuit, and I always knew that one day, I’d own the shop. MMA made it a reality I was able to achieve. But if I had to choose between MMA and tattooing—which I did—I’d choose my art every damn time. I can’t tattoo if my hands are busted or if I’m in so much pain that sitting in a chair for thirty minutes, hunched over a client, is an impossibility. I knew I had to get out, and luckily, I haven’t had much pushback from my coach. My parents are relieved that their only child will stop beating the shit out of men in the cage, and I don’t have to feel like my body is a weapon anymore.”

“I—” she begins but stops as the person in front of us finishes their order and steps aside, putting us at the head of the line.

“Hi, what can I get you?”

“Hola.Yoquiero un pozole por favor. ¿Y tienes tostones?”Serena asks, the Spanish sounding soft and lyrical in her voice.

“Sí.”

“Excelente. ¿Puedo tener esos también?” Turning to me, she asks, “Wolf, what do you want?”

I clear my throat, surprised that she’s trying to order for me. Gently, so that she doesn’t think that she’s in charge but also doesn’t get offended or think that I’m dismissing her, I grab her arm and pull her to my side, effectively tucking her under my arm. “Hi. Can I have two carne asada tacos and a barbacoa? The name is Wolf for the order.” I offer my credit card and stuff money in the tip jar next to the window.

“Thank you.Gracias,” the woman calls out, looking past us to the onslaught of new customers who have arrived for late-night Mexican street food. I lead Serena over to my bike and lean against it as she paces back and forth.

“You good, princess?”

“Just a little cold,” she offers, sheepishly rubbing her arms in explanation. Shrugging off my leather jacket, I hold it out to her, nodding toward the fabric wordlessly. “Oh, no. I have a jacket; you’ll just be in a sweatshirt, and I can’t make you go cold a second time. The party was bad enough.”

“Princess, take the goddamn jacket. I’ll be fine, but you look like you’re shaking.” Her shoulders drop, and she reaches out, grabbing the jacket and quickly putting it over her frame. She huddles into the coat as though it’s offering her a hug and inhales deeply. “You smelling my coat?” I tease, savoring the redness of her cheeks as she reacts to my jibe.

“Wolf!” Looking past Serena, the woman who took our order calls out my name and holds up a bag containing our food. Pushing from the bike, I walk to the front of the line and grab the bag before circling back to Serena. Despite the late hour, there are no available picnic tables in the lot.

I weigh our options: eat standing up or go to someplace with a table. Taking in Serena’s body dwarfed by my jacket and her obvious discomfort from the cold, I rule out eating outside.

“Put your arms through the sleeves. We’ve got a ten-minute ride. Will you be okay?”

“Where are we going?”

I shake my head, not answering her question. “That’s not what I asked. Will you be okay, or do I need to call a car service?”

---