We had to take two buses to get there. The first was smaller and half electric. It was the fancy new kind of bus, the kind with display boards that warn you minutes before each stop. We boarded along with five blonde-haired twentysomethings with Australian accents and Billabong surfwear. They ate white buns out of plastic bags and tossed hair out of their eyes. I looked out the window while L watched the Australians. We passed the dog bakery and two different spas, racks of mannequins and the thrift store where I’d bought old hiking boots cracked and stained from someone else’s hard work.
On the second bus, I sat in between two men. One of them smelled, sweat and cologne. The one on the left moved closer and the one on the right moved away. L, sitting across from me, looked up at the ads and laughed. We rode the bus for thirty minutes, the street numbers rising. When we reached the highway I got nervous, remembering the time I found myself on 70th avenue when I was looking for 2nd. In Richmond, the strip malls were bordered by condos and every second building was a pet store. It reminded me of Tucson, because of the strip malls, and Seattle, because of the overpasses, the industrial edge of the city.
We got off the bus. It was hotter than I had expected, my purple tights sticking to my legs, thrift store skirt too-big and creasing. We went to the mall and found a washroom. Afterwards, L contemplated eating TacoTime so I told her that in Mexico there are no hard-shell tacos, only tostadas, flattened. She said the new knowledge blew her mind.
At the next bus stop, we studied restaurants. Happy Date Bakery & Restaurant, or Success Seafood? Promises of wealth, fulfilment, and security could be served alongside sticky buns and rice. L said, “Let’s go to Happy Date. I could really use a Happy Date.”