Shuffling through the doors of the cafeteria, her mismatched slippers dragging against the cold tiled floor, Babs could think of only one thing. Two things, actually. The first: Her medication, which she had hidden for the 12th day in a row, a pile of pills beneath her hard mattress. The second: Throbbing anticipation for the promised Tex-Mex extravaganza.

"Coen has arrived." Pulsing across the corridor, the plucky Italian embraced the impressionable woman.

"Babs, I've brought your favorite dish, an en-chi-la-da." The sonorous words rolled from his massive chest.

"Coen, I hate enchiladas. Did you remember the tacos?" She desperately pleaded, a tear rolling down her sullen lips.

Much as she'd tried, Babs could think of nothing but the pleasure she associated with the spicy roll - so hard, yet still so soft. Her right hand wandered down his side and to her own hip, entering the pocket of her robe and fingering the three packets of fire sauce that her brother had snuck in for her.

"My dear, my lovely Babs!" Coen feigned disappointment at her lack of faith. His hand roamed over the small of her back, plucking at her robe, his mind on the sour cream he was sure she had hidden somewhere. "You doubt me, my love. Is it not possible for your dining partner to tease you, gently?"

Her eyes, smoldering.

"Yes, my love. Your tacos are ready for those sweet lips." He pulled her close and whispered, "Come ... with ... me."

They walked, arm-in-arm, a slow dance to the long table where a tray of moist Mexican dishes awaited their greedy appetites. Her lips, wet.

Babs reached for her pockets. Inside, a tight container filled with sour cream awaited. They shared the cream and spread it across their bounty. The tacos, still warm from the oven, melted the sauce and leaked off their plates.

Reaching below the table their eyes briefly met. An ephemeral glimpse and then a moment of pure transcendence mingling with infinity.

The broken and abandoned souls curled beneath the fluorescent lights and knew their ends.