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Unpaid Advertisement: Cazadores Canned Margarita

Canned tequila is good enough, and so am I.
A long, narrow photo of a very tall redwood tree, with heavily textured bark and some green, mossy looking patches.
Not a can of alcohol, but an old nice tree.

“It’s in a can,” my French ex-husband’s current French wife said when I brought a pack of Cazadores premade margaritas to their apartment. Nico and I jumped to defending my taste, saying Whoa, hey, in low, offended tones. Everybody—including a man I non-amicably divorced—knows I don’t fuck around with low-quality booze.

“It’s good,” he confirmed when he opened one and took a sip. “I think if you have two, you’re feeling it.”

In a not-so-distant time (and still, in not-so-distant places), someone could have my sweet trans body institutionalized for the following statement, but: It was a redwood that told me to buy them. In late October, I departed the queer sanctuary I’d been visiting for a break at my favorite forest in California, because a romance blossoming in the former had become, for the moment, untenably messy.

When I got to the redwoods to recenter, these particular trees I’ve been visiting intimately for eight years were waiting, as they’ve been for thousands of years. I asked one if I could touch it, and I felt the okay. There, among the understory of lime-colored ferns, breathing dense, coastal air, I rested my hand and forehead against the trunk of a tree that was probably born before the Prophet Muhammad and saw, in my mind, a picture.

Of a canned margarita.

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