The little corner restaurant was crowded and noisy with the clanking of knives against plates and voices on top of voices trying to be heard over "grilled talapia for table two" and "Milton. Party of five." It was only a Tuesday night, but still the cantina was filled with hungry families passing black beans and rice across narrow tables and lovers whose lust for one another grew with every sip of tequila as they huddled close at the bar and stared deep into each other's eyes. It was Tuesday, but in every way that mattered—like the way the sunset turned burnt orange or the breeze delicately and playfully lifted the skirts of the young girls walking the cracked sidewalks in high heels—it may as well have been Saturday.
In the midst of all of the living and toasting and blowing noses on white paper napkins, Miguel put his head down and did his duty. With his curly brown hair hanging like curtains over his hazel eyes, the handsome boy wiped down a rectangular table in the back, keeping his gaze down and fixed on the circular strokes of the white and blue rag as it dragged across the dark wood. He dared not look up. He had only been there a few weeks, but he had already learned better. That's where she was. Watching. Judging. Breaking. La Madre.
Miguel moved the bottles of Tapatio and Cholula from one place to another, careful to not to allow his eyes to drift up toward her. He knew she was looking down at him though. She saw everything. From inside the boundaries of her faded gold frame and in delicate paintstrokes of browns, grays, blues, and blacks, La Madre leered down with thinly veiled contempt on everything below her: the flickering orange candles that did their best to shine against her darkness; the man or woman, unaware of the cruel opposition against them, who smiled their way through feelings of unexplained foreboding; and the child, not yet mature enough or strong enough to withstand the oppression, who cried inconsolable tears just because. La Madre. She revelled in it all. Reigning. Inflicting. All from her perch, nailed in a tangerine-colored, stucco wall at 7 feet high.
Miguel finished preparing his table, sympathetic for those who'd soon sit there over tortilla chips, guacamole, and salsa. They had no idea.
