The girl with a headband holding back her well-coiffed locks was screaming her way through a conversation at the other table, ruling over her family in the way pretty girls can rule over whole groups. With almost ten people at the table, it was a wonder she was the only one who seemed to be talking. A loud, nasal voice rising up over the meek voices of her grandmother, elderly aunts and assorted children and twenty-somethings. She was giving a long speech on the nature of love and the difficulty of betrayal. Seated a few tables away from her at the pozolería, I could make out little swatches of conversation, small bits that floated over from the table. Suddenly, one phrase stopped me, broke me into laughter, hunched me over as a I tried to squelch my laughter:
        “En el amor, no hay número.”
        Don’t worry, I don’t understand what it means either.

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