For one week, all I could think about was drinking margaritas–well, that and running my tongue along Reyes’s teeth–but I didn’t have salt–or Reyes’s teeth. I’d also lacked the energy to leave my apartment to get some–or the desire to stoop low enough to beg Reyes to let me lick his teeth after what he did–so I could only wish for a margarita. And dream of Reyes’s teeth. I’d secretly hoped a margarita would magically appear in my hand, but that would mean I would have to put down the remote, and God knew that was not going to happen.
