The Mexican restaurant in absence of the Mexican, exhibit C.
Last thing you remembered was getting into that cab, your legs aching from dancing but still ready to go all night. Oh yes, and that sweet stranger, the whispered invitation. Now you’re waking up face down in some foreign bed, crumbs ground into the sheets and all over your face.
Guess they call them “biscuits” here, but those babies know how to party as well as the cookies you knew back home.