It's your birthday, we told him, you decide. He threw his arms over his head, upsetting the lamp hanging above the table. This is a democracy. I leaned back and watched the lamp swinging above our heads, until Dolores' hand reached high and stilled it. When I join my father at the table, he smiles.
Chicken enchiladas with green chile sauce.
He closes his menu. He's wearing a shirt that Dolores bought him, obscenely olive near a face I always saw in obvious blue, dad blue. Behind him, women in long skirts carrying trays of food criss cross one another. They move their hips around corners, swerve through the customers. Kim Huggins is trying to get me one through her uncle, set design stuff.