Salt from his margarita sat on his lips. A grain had wound up on his face, sitting in one of the many round acne scars that pocked his skin. Tara looked around the restaurant and noticed dust on a string of red, green, and white paper flags. The place was Mexican. What sounded like bullfight music played over the speaker. A young waiter with small diamond studs in each of his ears said, “Olé,” and shook out a cloth napkin in front of the hostess as if it were a cape. The hostess, standing behind her tall desk, made horns with her fingers, putting them up by the sides of her head. Tara’s date, Tommy Borbonne, asked her how she liked the place. “Nice,” she said.

Outside the plate glass window, the sky was yellow. A mixture of clouds, smog, and a weak sunset. A wind blew, which made the fallen leaves of eucalyptus trees and grapefruit trees skate across the sidewalk. The West’s version of autumn, Tara thought to herself, missing for a moment the four seasons from her eastern childhood where in October sugar maples lit up hillsides like swaths of flames. But other than that, she liked living in Pasadena. She found the tall palms beautiful, even when the one beside the concrete patio outside her small apartment sometimes shook from rats scrambling in the leaves and not from the wind.

Tommy Borbonne was a transplant too, he told her. He named a town in New Jersey she did not know and described for her the Tudor house where he was raised. His mother was an art teacher who once tried her hand at interior design and stuccoed the walls and ceiling of the kitchen, and even the front of the refrigerator so that every time someone held the handle and opened the door, a peak of dried paint pricked the back of their hand. He signaled to the young waiter. “Another round please,” he said, and used his finger to draw a circle in the air over their first margaritas.

She excused herself. In the bathroom, she adjusted her shirt so that tucked in, it bloused over her belly, and, she hoped, hid her bulge of fat. She made sure her eyeliner hadn’t smudged. She applied more face powder to her nose and the wrinkles by her eyes and the wrinkles above her lips. She brushed her gray hair. A strand floated down to the sink basin, and because the sink was made of dark soapstone, the gray strand stood out starkly against it and made it look like the sink basin was cracked.

When she returned to the table, her new margarita had arrived. She hoped it tasted better than the last one. The last one was watered down. She slid across the wooden bench seat, so she was sitting directly across from Tommy.

“This online dating thing. Do you do it often?” she said, taking a sip of her margarita, and trying not to make a face because it was weak like the last one.

“Not my first time. Yours?” he asked.

“Not my first time, either. Kids?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Just an ex. You?” he said.

“Three, all grown, and one ex-husband,” she said.

“At least it’s not the other way around, three exes and one kid,” he said, and laughed. Tara smiled, and sipped her drink.

She woke to a needle being stuck in her arm. “For the fluids,” the nurse told her. Tara looked around. She blinked several times. She would have liked to have kept her eyes closed because the lights in the emergency room were so bright. Her head ached. “Why am I here?” she asked, while looking down at herself in her hospital gown to see exactly what on her needed treatment. “You drank too much and blacked out,” the nurse, a woman in her thirties with hair whose ends were dyed violet, told Tara. “Someone saw you on the street and called an ambulance for you.”

“I only had two watered down margaritas,” Tara said, trying to sit up. The nurse put her arm on her shoulder and made her lay back down.

“You can’t leave yet. You’re still hooked up. The doctor will come by,” the nurse said. The inside of Tara’s throat was sore. She put her hand to her neck, and when she did, the nurse said, “They found you drunk and screaming. They thought you were crazy and homeless. You wouldn’t stop. No one knew what you were saying.”

The doctor told her the same thing. He also told her that her son had been notified and he was on his way over to take her home. The doctor, who had a lock of long chestnut hair at the front of his head that swooped down low over one eye, tossed it back, and told her it was a good thing she hadn’t decided to drive her car in that inebriated state. He said, otherwise she was fine. Tara asked to see the results of the tests that were done on her. The doctor’s chestnut hair fell into his eye again, and again he tossed his head. It looked as if he were saying “no.” But then he said, “I’ll get someone to bring them to you.”

The same nurse brought the results.

“How can these be mine?” Tara said.

“Your name’s on the top,” the nurse said.

“You said I was drunk. This says my blood alcohol level was .03. That’s not even over the legal limit, and what about a rape exam? Was I given one of those?” Tara said. The nurse shrugged.

“I don’t perform the tests,” she said.

Her son came in. He walked hesitantly toward her and then stopped five feet away.

“I’m not going to bite you, Danny. Come closer,” she said. Her son came closer, and put his hand on her ankle.

“You okay, Mom?”

She showed her son the test results. “They said I was drunk, that I was screaming in the street. But I wasn’t drunk, obviously,” she said.

“You were something. Do you remember talking to me in the ambulance? They used your phone. We had a video call,” he said.

“What did I say?” she said. Her son looked away. He looked behind him, toward the door he just came through, like he wanted to walk out that same door and leave. Instead, he turned back toward her again. His hair wasn’t combed. His curls, on one side, were flattened, and had a piece of lint stuck in them, as if that were the side where his head was lying against his pillow before he was just woken up by the EMTs. He was wearing sneakers without socks. She thought of taking off the hospital socks that were on her feet, and giving them to him.

“You spit at me. At the screen. You kept spitting,” he said.

“That can’t be. That’s crazy,” she said. The fact that he did not say anything, but just looked into her eyes, made her realize it was the truth. She cried. She brought her hands to her face to hide her eyes. She felt the edge of the plastic hospital bracelet she was wearing dig into her cheek. He told her not to cry. He told her it was okay. He moved her leg back and forth with his hand that was still on her ankle, trying to reassure her. She removed her hands from her eyes. “What happened to me? Who did this to me?” she said. Her son slowly shook his head.

What she remembered about Tommy Borbonne was his mother. She remembered the story about her stuccoing all the walls in the kitchen, and even the refrigerator door. She did not remember the rest of the dinner. She did not remember leaving the restaurant or standing in the street screaming.

The next day was Saturday. Tara did not have to work. She went back to the restaurant at lunchtime. She spoke to the young waiter with the diamond studs. “What happened?” she said to him. He told her that after their dinner, she and Tommy Borbonne left the restaurant together.

“Was I stumbling? Was I slurring my words? How many drinks did we have altogether?” she asked. The young waiter retrieved the previous night’s receipts. She had had two margaritas. She did not stumble, nor slur her words, but later, much later, when the young waiter was clearing the tables on the sidewalk because the restaurant was closing, the young waiter said he saw her and Tommy Borbonne on the sidewalk.

“And what were we doing?” she said. The young waiter looked away, then looked at her again.

“Making out. But really making out. Like you two should have gotten a room,” he whispered. Tara put her hand over her mouth. She had never made out with anyone like that in public before. The young waiter let the news sink in, and then said, “Then you started screaming. You started screaming, ‘This is not me!’ You screamed it again and again. The dude, the guy you were with, ran off. But you kept screaming. Five minutes later, an ambulance came.”

Tara put on her sunglasses to walk back to her apartment. She could feel the tears she shed getting trapped by the sunglasses, and pooling at the bottoms of the plastic rims.

At home, she got out paper and a pen. She drew a timeline. There were four hours missing from the time the waiter said she and Tommy left the restaurant, and the time someone called an ambulance. What had happened in those four hours?

Her daughter came over. Her daughter hugged her right away, before even saying hello, before even walking into the apartment. In the doorway, Tara wanted to stay with her head buried in her daughter’s long hair that smelled of coconut from her shampoo. Tara did not want to lift her head away and have to tell her daughter everything she had learned about the night before. But her daughter told her that Tara had to tell her everything, or she would never tell her mother anything ever again. Her daughter told her it was a two-way street. “Yeah, but all the traffic lights are red on my street,” her mother said. Her daughter, said, “hah-hah.” Then her daughter put her hand on Tara’s shoulder. “Come on, Mom,” her daughter said in a soft voice. Tell me.” Together they went inside Tara’s apartment and looked at the timeline. Tara told her daughter everything she knew that had happened from the night before. Afterward, her daughter said, “Mom, we need to go to the police. I’m taking you to the station to report this creep.”

Sergeant Preddy, when he saw the paperwork, requested to see Tara’s daughter first, alone. Tara’s daughter went into his office, while Tara sat in the precinct waiting room, wondering what was going on. Why did he need to meet with her daughter first? It turned out to be a mistake. Sergeant Preddy had just assumed that it was Tara’s daughter who had been on the date, who had come in to the station to report someone drugging her drink. When Tara finally met with him, Sergeant Preddy shook his large head. He said, “I apologize. I didn’t think an older woman would have let this happen to her.” Tara felt her cheeks get hot. She tried to remember the last time she had been so embarrassed, but she could not. She hoped that she had put on enough face powder that Sergeant Preddy could not see the burn in her cheeks that she could feel.

“He took you to dinner, and bought you a few drinks. He asked about your family, what you did for work. He sounds like a nice guy. So, you had one too many, or maybe, like you say, you had only a few, but you’re older now. What you could handle back then, you can’t handle now. Nothing to be embarrassed about,” Sergeant Preddy said. But Tara knew it wasn’t just alcohol she had consumed the night before.

“I’m telling you. He put something in my drink. The waiter said I was screaming, ‘This isn’t me!’ Even in that state, I knew I’d been drugged,” she said.

“The hospital only tested her blood alcohol content, but is it too late to test for drugs? For whatever date rape drugs he may have used?” Tara’s daughter asked. Sergeant Preddy shook his head a few times.

“Too late for drug tests. It’s out of her system by now,” he said.

“What about an exam?” her daughter said. Sergeant Preddy just stared at her daughter then finally said, “I read the doctor’s report. There is no need for a medical exam above and beyond what the hospital did.”

“I lost four hours. Where was I? What did that man do to me?” Tara said. Her voice rose.

“There’s no way to prove that even if you did engage in relations, that they weren’t consensual. I’m sorry you blacked out. Just let it be a lesson to you for next time,” and with that, Sergeant Preddy stood up from his chair. “Excuse me ladies, I’ve got another interview,” he said.

On the street, Tara’s daughter said, “What a prick!” Tara was silent. Her daughter drove Tara back to Tara’s apartment. In the car, she wept. Tara’s daughter kept only one hand on the wheel, with the other, she held her mother’s hand.

In her apartment, Tara’s daughter placed a switchblade on the table. “Danny wanted me to give this to you,” she said. Her daughter showed Tara how the blade jumped out when you pressed on the button.

“What’s your brother doing with that?” Tara said.

“It’s for you. He wants you to keep it in your purse. He made me promise,” her daughter said. Tara’s daughter opened up her mother’s purse and dropped it in. After her daughter left her apartment, Tara sat outside on the patio. In the palm tree beside her, she could hear the rats high up, scuttling in the leaves. A palm frond fell down next to her. It lay splayed on the concrete floor of the patio, and quivered for a moment. Tara reached in her pocket and took out her phone, where she found Tommy Borbonne’s number. She dialed it.

“I’ve been meaning to call you,” Tommy Borbonne said in a voice that sounded flat and hard to Tara, making her think she could have been talking to the concrete pad of her patio. Tara asked if they could meet again, for coffee the next morning. When Tara’s daughter called her later to see how she was, Tara didn’t tell her she was going to meet Tommy Borbonne again the next day.

Tara arrived in the parking lot early. She wanted to see what car Tommy Borbonne drove, to see if it would help her remember more of the other night. At first, when he drove in, she didn’t remember it. It looked like all the other new trucks on the roads with oversized front chrome grills and lifted frames, but then when he opened the door of his pick-up truck and got out, she caught sight of a green air freshener in the shape of a cactus hanging from the rearview. She remembered it right away. She knew she had been in Tommy Borbonne’s truck at some point the other night. When the waiter told her that he had seen her and Tommy wildly kissing on the street, and then he had seen her screaming, it was scary enough, but knowing that at some point she was in his truck, in an enclosed space, made her all the more frightened about what may have happened to her. Tommy Borbonne looked like he hadn’t showered or brushed his hair. One side of the collar of his shirt was trapped under the neckline. Had he looked this bad when she first met him and she never noticed? No, he hadn’t. She remembered now that he had worn a clean white button-down shirt and khakis. His hair had been brushed. The pockmarks on his face look even more numerous than when she’d first met him, and also deeper, as if they were formed by the pellets from shotgun shells striking his skin. Still sitting in her car, she thought how easy it would be to just turn the key in the ignition and drive away. She could leave now and never have to see Tommy Borbonne again, but she would also never know what happened that night.

She waited for Tommy Borbonne to go into the coffee shop first, before she got out of her own car. Inside the coffee shop, she saw Tommy sitting at a table. She waved hello, and then went to place her order. Realizing that her hands were already shaking from nerves, she ordered hot chocolate instead of a coffee. When she sat down, Tommy gave her a quick smile, then looked down at his coffee. He was balding, and the crown of his head that was now revealed to her was smooth, and very unlike his own pockmarked face. Tara didn’t drink her hot chocolate. It was burning hot. She couldn’t even keep her fingers around the cup. She kept her hands palm down on the table, like she was pushing it down to keep it from flying up in the air.

“What happened the other night?” she said.

“What happened?” he said. He looked out the window. A bright sun reflected off all the cars in the parking lot and made them look burning white. “Nothing happened. We had dinner? Don’t you remember? We were pretty drunk. Maybe you don’t remember,” he said.

“I woke up in the emergency room,” she said.

“Oh, no. That’s terrible. What happened?” he said.

“The waiter said you ran away from me on the street. I was upset. Apparently, very upset, so upset that some stranger called an ambulance for me, but you ran away,” Tara said.

Tommy looked down at his coffee. For a moment, she thought he’d fallen asleep with his chin on his chest. But then he lifted his smooth bald head up, and the pockmarked face came into view. He shrugged his shoulders. “Sorry about that,” he said.

“I can’t account for four hours. What happened after we ordered the second round of margaritas? Why was I in your truck at one point?” Tara asked.

Tommy shook his head. “I guess I blacked out too. Maybe we just talked in my truck. I don’t know anything more,” he said.

Tara stood up. “You obviously put something in my drink. I’m reporting you to the dating service,” she said. She took her hot chocolate, then turned and started walking out of the coffee shop. On the way out, she threw her full cup of hot chocolate into an open garbage can. The garbage can must have been empty, because it hit the bottom hard. The top flew off and the hot chocolate splashed up in an arc, soaking her shirt. The brown liquid made big amorphous shapes, soaking in through the cloth’s weave, so that she felt the burning heat on her belly. She ran out of the coffee shop, holding the bottom of her shirt away from her skin. When she reached the car, she fumbled for her keys in her purse. She dug around, moving her hand left and right, lifting up her hairbrush, her wallet, and pushing things aside—her face powder, her hand sanitizer—to find her buried keys. When she felt the cool metal, she wrapped her hand around its handle and brought it out into the open. She turned and looked back at the coffee shop. Tommy Borbonne was at the counter, talking to the salesperson and ordering, pointing his finger at the case to a danish he wanted behind the glass.

Tara worked quickly. She went around to his truck. She ran up to the front right tire and crouched down. Again, she felt the heat on her belly from the hot chocolate that had splashed on her. She was surprised at how quickly the knife blade popped out when she hit the button on it. She thought to herself she was lucky she hadn’t held it the wrong way, and cut herself by mistake. It made her braver, this luck. She gouged the tire repeatedly, listening at first to it whispering softly, and then hissing angrily as the air escaped. When she was done, she ran back to her car. This time the keys were right at the top of all of the items in her purse. They, too, she thought, were trying to help her escape. In her car, she turned on her air-conditioning full blast. She positioned the vents so they directed cold air right at her, right where her belly burned. Then she pulled out of the parking lot.

That evening, the rats were busy. Three more palm fronds fell from the top of the tree and settled around Tara in a circle as she sat in her lawn chair. The way the palm fronds fell, all the tapered ends of them were pointing at her, like accusing fingers, she thought. She spoke aloud now. “Yes, guilty as charged,” she said to the palm fronds, thinking of Tommy Borbonne’s tire that she’d punctured with a switchblade. The wind came then, and shuddered the long leaves. Tara thought it looked like the palm fronds were moving even closer toward her now. If she stayed outside, they would end up on her feet, going up her legs, her body, her neck, her face, in her nostrils even, then down her throat. She stood up, backing her chair away from the palm fronds. “No, I won’t have it,” she said, and went inside.