Taco Party

I reluctantly walked a block in the cold to attend a Taco Party on a Wednesday night. I automatically assumed the company would be superficial, the food would be greasy, and the experience would not really be worth replacing the bag of popcorn and homework that I had planned. Nevertheless, I knew that I needed to try something new.

One of the guys I met at the party had some self-given name like Folge or Grunk. He wore a light brown shirt with deer antlers on it, orange boots, and wranglers. He asked me where I was from. Texas, I said. He served his mission in Houston and—judging from the look on his face—I think he assumed this would make us insta-friends, even though I’m from Austin, which is a good four hours away, and I’ve only been to Houston twice.

“What year in school are you?” He asked ordinary questions.

“I graduate next semester.” He smiled big and scooted to the edge of the couch, closer towards me.

“Will you be my sugar mama?” He practically shouted. Are you kidding me? I thought to myself.

“Um,” I looked at him with, what felt like, a disgusted expression, “No.”

“Why not?” he asked genuinely confused, throwing his hands up into the air.

“Well, because I expect a man to take care of me. Sorry.” My forehead wrinkled up in honesty.

He continued to plead with me for about two minutes, and I didn’t know whether or not I should keep pretending to smile. I am done with this, I thought. My mouth quivered with confusion, I averted my eyes from his, and walked home by myself about ten minutes later.