A smell lifts into the morning air, a dispersal of particles, the most potent of which fight their way into the limited convolution of your gray matter. You breathe in deep. Sound waves bounce off someone’s voice traversing the rills of your hearing. The sunlight hits your eyes as a key swinging blithely seeking a doorway. Trip goes the trigger, the door swings open and you are in the desert but you can definitely smell your grandmother’s tortillas.
She’s flipping them on the comal. You hear the sounds of her rough fingers sliding against the hot iron as she flips the crisping flatbread alternating with the sound of the rolling pin as she prepares another for the tacos everyone is going to eat before David the Alone drinks all the milk from the fridge that stood guard the night Grandpa drunk himself stupid and blamed your cousins for the death of his firstborn son Manuel who drowned a year before you were born in the ocean you first learned to surf. South Padre is a curtain unfurled, releasing hot dogs and junkies and spring breakers and nights in Mexico where preppy college kids are talking to you in slowly improvised garbles, that could pass for Spanish if you were a retard, asking you to “por favor, watcha my caro?” and which bars are better so you point in the direction of another fight where Teri ripped off Mari’s shirt and all the guys wrestled for a view of the ruins of the Roman landscape on your 25th birthday candles you lit the fires down the alley you took for a shortcut every morning that you had the munchies so you ate Vela’s gross tacos because they were the only taqueria open 24 years until the sand leaves your system. It clogs up everything inside.
Another deep breath.
You ask your buddies if they smell that.
"I just farted" Steve confesses with a smirk.