In the summer Craig asked her again to go to Mexico with him, and she said yes. They decided to go as soon as finals were over, and she was eager to get out of her parents’ house, even if only for a couple of weeks. So on a sunny May afternoon, Craig showed up in front of her house in his convertible black Camero and she immediately ran out, bags long since packed, and - not able to wait for the cheap stuff sold on the Mexican beaches - she was already half-blitzed on homemade margaritas.

Craig’s previous tan had worn off a little bit, but he still wore the same-type muscle t-shirt, and it was obvious he had been working out from the fresh new centimeters of muscle he was sporting. He whistled at her when she got in the car, and the two exchanged a greeting peck before Craig whistled again and shifted the car into gear. For a second Angela thought the thickness of his neck and limbs almost seemed grotesque, but he looked over to her and smiled, and the feeling passed. She turned to face the road and the wind swept over the windshield to lift her hair skyward. She pulled herself up on top of the seat and waved Miss America-style to the passing cars, collecting honks from everyone they drove by. Then she swung back down into the seat, put on her sunglasses, and lit up a cigarette.

It took three hours to get to the Mexican border, but it was only three minutes before Angela realized she had nothing to say to Craig. Even in her drunken state, her brain refused to cough up a question or topic of conversation. Luckily, Craig’s inclinivity to talk kicked in not much later than that. So most of the car ride was spent listening to Craig talk about his goals, his achievements, his life and times. Angela dozed in and out, and after a couple of hours, Craig noticed that she wasn’t listening to a word he was saying. That shut him up.

After a while, Angela noticed that the talking had stopped and decided that it was time to see what was playing on the radio. She turned the dial and upon finding a classic rock station, Craig’s hand on hers was the signal that she should turn no more. Well, at least they had that in common. To the Elton John, Fleetwood Mac, and Lynnard Skynnard bursting out of the speakers, Angela and Craig lent their full voices and it was singing along to the Beatles’ "Love Me Do" at the top of their lungs that they reached the bridge to Mexico.

The border patrol signaled for the car to halt and came up to Craig’s side. "How y’all doing today, folks?"

"Just fine, sir," said Craig.

"You two aren’t going to get into any trouble over there, are you?" Something about Craig’s all-American appearance made it seem unlikely, so before they could respond, the officer stepped back from the car and waved them through towards the line of cars on the bridge.

"You’re not worried about something happening to your car over there?" Angela had never left her home state before, much less her home country, and she was just fishing for reassurance.

"Oh, shit you’re right!" Craig yelped. "I forgot all about the car. Stop the bridge, I wanna get off!" Then he winked at her and she hit him in the arm. "Angie, Mexico is as safe as countries get. The reports of crime here are greatly exaggerated. Actually..." Craig’s voice became supernaturally low at this point in an attempt to keep the secret he was about to speak just between the two of them. "Actually, people who go all the time spread all those stories in order to keep the paradise to themselves. The last thing we want are hordes of everybody and their mom coming over here on vacation." He leaned back in his seat with a look of satisfaction as if he had just figured out who really did kill Kennedy.

With a nod to the police on the Mexican side, the two of them were soon cruising the streets of the Mexican border town. Craig dismissed the bustling marketplace with a wave of his hand. "This is just a tourist trap. All these prices are worse than in the U.S. I'm going to take you inside Mexico, the real Mexico. I thought we’d start with Guadalajara, and go from there." His hand casually fell from the steering wheel onto Angela’s knee. "But we should go ahead and stop here somewhere for the night so that we can get an early start tomorrow. I need a break from driving."

Angela gracefully moved Craig’s hand onto the car seat. "Don’t worry, Sunshine. There will be time enough for that later. Right now I could use a nice hot shower and some dinner. What do you say?" She was secretly hoping that another few doses of tequila in the local cantina would raise Craig’s attractiveness quotient at least to marginally acceptable. She was finding it harder and harder to feel desire for the boorish jock she had somehow become hopelessly entangled with.

Craig seemed satisfied with her modified rebuff and he started scanning the buildings in the area for what appeared to be a Mexican version of Holiday Inn. Funny thing was, down the next street they passed Angela could see very clearly a Holiday Inn sign. She pointed, but he was quick to say that they would be fools to pay for an American brand name here. With a little searching, they could get "five times the quality at one tenth the price, no problem." He kept driving, and Angela was worried that they would soon reach the end of town when Craig let out a "Wa-hoo!" and pulled into what looked like a Spanish villa, complete with tile roofs and palm trees. "The Desert Chihuahua," he said, as if that explained everything. "I’ve been told by many a knowledgeable person that this is the place to go. This is where the locals stay when they’re in town, so you know it has to be a good place."

Angela was about to say something, but thought better of it and started to gather her things out of the back seat.