B, Maybe.

Stolen moments - Eleanor in action.

Last night, in search of a decent, well, okay, passable Mexican meal here in Iowa, we drove about twenty miles down the road to West Liberty, an industrial corn outpost with empty streets and a pair of curved train tracks that skirts the cemetery and fairgrounds and runs right behind the fire station. Here, on 3rd Street, we found a place called El Torito, or, if you'd rather, The Wee Bull.

There was only one other dining party inside - a group of about eight senior citizens - and it was one of 'em's birthday. They were laughing the whole time, and downing bluberry cupcakes they had brought from home. Eleanor stared at them, weaving figure-8's with her tortilla, in hand. Janelle and I forked down our fajitas and relleno. For some reason, I couldn't stop watching the proprietor, a softspoken man captivated by a Spanish soccer game, which must've bounced off forty-seven satellites to make it into the Wee Bull.

"Not bad. B+?"

"B, maybe."

"Yeah."

We clinked our beer bottles, and a kindly old woman presented Eleanor with one of the coveted cupcakes, which she scarfed down instantly. The sugar went straight to her bloodstream and lit a bonfire there. And so, as a result, we spent the next forty minutes running up and down the empty streets of West Liberty, laughing across the train tracks after Eleanor's sugar-burning soul tumble. And a silent grain bin stared down at us, unblinking.