Taco Ballz Deep- Epilogue: Taco Ballz Express

Miro and Una reconnected swimmingly.

Actually, swimmingly didn't begin to cover it.

It felt like catching lightning in a bottle—assuming the bottle served root beer floats, smelled faintly of body glitter, and employed women named things like Purty and Ms. O.

After the fire, there had been firefighters, police officers, insurance people, Uncle Owen, Eddy, and approximately fourteen different versions of the question How did this happen?

The official answer was electrical.

The unofficial answer, according to Miro, was that Taco Ballz had finally committed suicide.

Una told him that wasn't funny.

Then she laughed.

Eventually, with Taco Ballz reduced to a smoking shell and Una suddenly unemployed for the second time in twenty-four hours, Eddy offered her a job tending bar at the Tilted Beaver.

Una accepted.

It wasn't management.

But it paid.

More importantly, Miro started coming in almost every night.

At first, Una assumed he was there because Eddy was his friend.

By the fourth night, she knew better.

Miro planted himself at the bar and stayed there.

They talked about everything except the fire.

They talked about music.

Bad movies.

Una's terrible employment history.

Miro's slightly less terrible employment history.

The places they wanted to travel.

The stupidest things they'd ever done.

Their families.

The future.

Sometimes, Una had customers to serve, and Miro would sit patiently with his beer while she worked, watching her with that little half-smile she'd become intimately familiar with during their single catastrophic shift together.

Then she'd come back.

And they'd keep talking.

It was effortless.

That was what surprised Una most.

She had dated men before whom she'd desperately wanted to like. Men she'd dressed up for, prepared conversation topics for, analyzed text messages from, and discussed at exhausting length with friends.

Miro required none of that.

She simply liked him.

Worse, she liked him a lot.

And every time he leaned across the bar and smiled at her, she became increasingly convinced that the feeling was mutual.

Several nights later, Una's shift ended sometime after two in the morning.

The Tilted Beaver's neon sign went dark. Purty counted her tips. Odetta disappeared into the dressing room while texting someone Una strongly suspected was Pete.

That situation had apparently developed.

Una wasn't touching it.

She grabbed her purse from her locker and found Miro waiting outside.

"I'll drive you home," he said.

Una smiled.

"Okay."

She followed him into the parking lot.

Then stopped.

Miro wasn't standing beside his Honda.

He was leaning against a food truck.

Una stared.

It was white, freshly painted, and gloriously tacky.

Across the side, in enormous red-and-yellow letters, were three words:

TACO BALLZ EXPRESS

Una's mouth fell open. Miro spread his arms. "Well?" She looked at the truck. Then at him.

Then back at the truck.

"No."

"Yes."

"Miro!" She ran at him.

He barely had time to laugh before Una threw her arms around his neck. Miro caught her easily. Her feet left the pavement. She squealed as he lifted her, and suddenly she was wrapped around him, laughing into his shoulder while he held her like she weighed nothing at all.

"You bought a food truck?"

"I bought a food truck."

"For Taco Ballz?"

"Taco Ballz Express."

She pulled back far enough to see his face.

"You actually did it."

His grin softened.

"I had to get my assistant manager back."

That did it.

Una kissed him.

Miro kissed her back.

The kiss lasted long enough for Una to forget several important facts, including where they were, what time it was, and the existence of civilized society.

When they finally separated, she was breathless.

"So," Miro murmured, still holding her. "You want the tour?"

Una looked toward the truck.

Then back at him.

"Absolutely."

They did eventually tour the food truck.

Eventually.

Much later, Una lay beside Miro inside Taco Ballz Express, her yellow polo somewhere beneath the driver's seat and one of Miro's shirts hanging loosely from her shoulders.

She couldn't stop smiling.

Neither could he.

Una rested her chin against his chest.

"I have questions."

"Of course you do."

"First, how do you already own a food truck?"

Miro laughed.

"Long story."

"It's three in the morning. I'm unemployed. I've got time."

"You're not unemployed."

Una lifted her head.

"Oh?"

"I thought we'd established that."

"You haven't hired me."

"I carried you into the business."

"That's not legally binding."

"It should be."

"Salary?"

"Negotiable."

"Benefits?"

Miro's eyebrow rose.

Una slapped his chest.

"Employment benefits, pervert."

"Those are also negotiable."

She laughed and settled against him again.

"Seriously. Where did you get the money?"

Miro was quiet for a moment.

Then he smiled.

"Remember those old posters?"

Una frowned.

"The ones from your grandfather's office?"

"Yep."

"The 'Hot Jazz, Hot Ballz' posters?"

"Among others."

"You saved those?"

"I took them home before the fire."

Una remembered.

The morning they'd met, Miro had been taking old advertisements off the walls. She'd startled him while he was carefully sorting them.

At the time, she'd assumed they were worthless restaurant memorabilia.

"They were valuable?"

Miro laughed.

"Very."

"How valuable?"

"My grandfather had musicians coming through that place for decades. Especially when it was a jazz lounge. Whenever somebody famous played there, he'd have them sign one of the promotional posters."

"Okay."

"On the back."

Una sat up.

"Why the back?"

"Grandpa didn't like autographs messing up his advertising."

"Of course he didn't."

"My uncle never knew. Grandpa gave me the poster collection years ago because I was the only person who cared about the restaurant's history."

Una stared at him.

"How much are they worth?"

Miro gave her that grin.

"Let's just say I only had to sell one."

Her eyes widened.

"One?"

"One."

"To buy an entire food truck?"

"An entire food truck."

Una looked around.

Stainless-steel counters.

Fryer.

Refrigerator.

Grill.

Serving window.

Then she noticed something.

"Miro."

"Yeah?"

"Is that the sour-cream injector?"

He looked toward the counter.

"Obviously."

"You saved that?"

"Can't make authentic Taco Ballz without it."

Una groaned and collapsed against him.

"I can't believe I'm sleeping with the Taco Ballz guy."

"Owner of Taco Ballz Express."

"That's worse."

"Assistant manager of Taco Ballz Express."

Una stopped.

She looked up.

Miro was watching her.

"Are you serious?"

"Completely."

She narrowed her eyes.

"I want a raise."

"You haven't started yet."

"I know my value."

"I'll give you twenty percent more than Taco Ballz paid you."

Una thought about it.

"Twenty-five."

"Twenty."

"Twenty-five, and I never clean the sour-cream injector."

Miro considered this.

"Deal."

She extended her hand.

He shook it.

Then pulled her against him and kissed her again.

Una decided negotiations had concluded satisfactorily.

Taco Ballz Express opened two weeks later.

Against all reasonable expectations, it was a hit.

Without the rent and overhead of the old restaurant—and with Miro finally free to run the business his way—the Ballz started making money.

They catered parties.

Weddings.

Office lunches.

College events.

Once, inexplicably, a funeral.

Miro changed the recipe.

Una insisted.

The margarita sour cream survived.

Miro insisted.

They compromised.

That became something of a pattern.

Miro Wolfgang was finally the owner of Taco Ballz.

Una Gold remained his assistant manager.

And girlfriend.

And occasional voice of reason.

Though not always in that order.

Chris and Pete became occasional customers. Pete came more often than Chris, although Una suspected that had less to do with the food and more to do with the fact that Odetta sometimes helped them cater weekend events.

The dumpster lovers disappeared.

The Tilted Beaver remained tilted.

Eddy never fixed the foundation.

The Civil War reenactors and cosplayers were permanently forbidden from holding athletic competitions anywhere near the Taco Ballz Express truck.

Miro considered this policy excessive.

Una considered it nonnegotiable.

And every now and then, when business was slow, Una would catch Miro leaning against the service window, watching her with the same devilish grin he'd worn the morning they met.

She'd think about that first day.

Her perfect hair.

Her wrinkle-free yellow polo.

Every green light she'd hit on her moped.

She'd been so certain the universe was finally giving her a break.

Then she'd arrived at Taco Ballz and discovered that her brand-new career was scheduled to end at ten o'clock that night.

By midnight, the restaurant had burned down.

Objectively, it should have been one of the worst days of her life.

Instead, Una had gotten a promotion.

Lost a job.

Witnessed a grease-wrestling riot.

Been questioned by police about a medieval bar wench.

Fed a half-naked stranger through a drive-thru window.

Visited a structurally unsound strip club.

And met Miro Wolfgang.

So maybe she'd been right that morning.

Everything really had been coming up aces.

Just not remotely in the way she'd expected.

One evening, after the dinner rush, Miro came up behind her while she was counting the register and wrapped his arms around her waist.

Una leaned back against him.

"Hey, Assistant Manager."

"Hey, Boss."

"You happy?"

Una looked through the service window.

A line of customers waited beneath the Taco Ballz Express sign.

Odetta and Pete were sharing fries at a picnic table.

Across the parking lot, the Tilted Beaver leaned defiantly against gravity.

Then Una looked up at Miro.

"Yeah."

He kissed her.

"So am I."

Una smiled against his mouth.

Outside, somebody shouted, "Hey! Are you guys still serving?"

Miro didn't stop kissing her.

Una reluctantly pulled away.

"We have customers."

"They can wait."

"We're running a business."

"My business."

"Our business."

Miro smiled.

"That's my assistant manager."

Una opened the service window.

"Welcome to Taco Ballz Express!"

Miro dropped another batch into the fryer.

And this time, when Una looked around at her ridiculous little kingdom, she knew exactly where she belonged.

The End