The second time we went to that Thai restaurant, we took the car instead of walking. It was just up the hill. The city buzzed violently. 
“Look at that, a parking spot,” she said, as confirmation that the universe was ours. 
I parallel parked, dumped a quarter in the meter. We went inside. 
The restaurant was empty. Bad food. No liquor license. 
“We’d like a seat by the door, please.”
The impossibly thin hostess, with the death red lips, plopped our menus down. We ordered two Thai iced teas. Spring rolls. Coconut soup. 
The place was bizarre. The first time we were there, we saw three young Hispanic girls wheel in suitcases. The staff took the suitcases to the back. The girls ate light, left without their suitcases. 
Me and Jen had a theory. We talked about it in our apartment. 
“But that’s insane,” we both said in unison. It was. She had many unproven conspiracies. I had a few. 

But sure enough, we were back at the weird Thai restaurant and there was the first girl rolling in the door with a big black suitcase. 

Without missing a beat, Jen was up out of her seat. She shoved the girl over. I dashed, grabbed the suitcase, acting on odd instinct. 
Jen was already in the car as I came out the door. As I climbed in with the suitcase, she was tuning the key. There was a yell as we sped away, the suitcase on my lap, the hostess chasing foolishly up the sidewalk. 
We got out of the city. Crossed into Jersey. 
There was a motel just across the bridge called the Courtesy Motor Lodge, blinking with pink and aquamarine neon
In room 118, I opened the suitcase. 
No pink panties. No hot iron or deodorant. 
Nine pounds of heroin. 
The police sirens began to rise out of the carpet, the toilet, the black and white television, the metal filling in our mouths. 
But, we’d been right. 
This once.

6 Replies to “Right”

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