I thought he meant murder, he thought I meant tacos, so here we were on Tuesday the 17th sitting at a Mexican restaurant very confused by each other's outfits.
"Why're you wearing all black and a ski mask?" Matt grumbled, glancing at the other patrons. "And where on earth did you put the ski mask?"
Sighing, I pulled the ski mask back out from the pocket inside my sweater and fired back, "Why are you dressed like that?" The sneer in my voice made him shoot his gaze back to me, his eyes darkening and saddening as he responded.
"Taco Tuesday is sacred, Bell." His arms crossed over his magnificently atrocious poncho, his medium, well-worn leather sombrero dipping down just enough to cast a shadow over his eyes as he gave me a hurt stink-eye.
Looking him over in all his "glory" I asked in dumbfounded awe, "Where on this fucked up earth did you even manage to find a poncho made out of Hawaiian print?"
Matt grumbled again and a smile twitched on his mouth as he said proudly, "I managed to get it for free from someone who'd been about to give it to a thrift store." Unable to keep looking hurt, he beamed at me and adding the horrifying last touch, "It's handmade, Bell!"
Stifling a groan, I forced my grimace into something more like a smile and forced out, "Good for you, Matt. I'm happy that you like it."
He grinned, "Taco Tuesday is sacred."
