Sex Scene

    My friends and I all walked through the door of the diner and were immediately greeted by the cool sensation of the A/C. The blood rushed to my face. I became dizzy from the sudden change in temperature. A warm front had met a cold front and my face found itself right in the middle of the two.

    Before I even got both my feet in the restaurant, my eyes shot over the throng of heads to check behind the cash register. There he was. My throat dried up and my heart fluttered. Those friends next to me continued on to join the line, but I stood in the doorway a few moments, dazed.

    Once I regained my bearings I followed. I spent most of the time in line staring at my shoes: beat up converse that had holes in the sides of them from my grip tape. I had cut them at the ankle, all the way around, right under the first eyelet. I called them three quarter high tops. I got the idea from an old skate video, Streets on Fire. One of the skaters had his shoes like that. I thought it was the coolest thing; so naturally I copied him. It came out later on that he was a Neo-Nazi, but he had a mean frontside air.

    At the moment my three quarter high tops were the most interesting thing in the world to me. I counted the checkered tiles as my feet shuffled from one square to the next. Two. Four. Five. Nine. I shot a glance toward him again. He had come much closer to me. I stared back at my three quarter high tops, fascinated by the shredded laces. All my friends ordered and the next thing I knew: it was me and him. All alone.

    “Hi, welcome to Good Burger, what will you be having today?”

    I’ll be having you baby. “Hi. I’ll just take a cheeseburger please.”

    “Would you like onions on that?”

    Only if your onions are grilled, nice and hot. “Yes please.”

    “You want to complete your order with a fry and a drink?”

    I was thinking maybe there was something else you could give me that would complete my order. “No. No thank you.”

    “Okay. What would you like to drink?”

    “Oh, I didn’t order the drink.”

    “I know. It’s on me.” 

    “I’ll take a cherry coke.”

    A small smile found its way to my lips. I thanked him. He told me my total, and I handed him the cash. I gave him a 5 dollar bill and the ends of our fingers slid over each other. He told me to wait right there while he got me my drink. For a quick moment, our eyes locked. I shot my attention back down to my shoes. Those shoelaces sure were interesting. I wondered what those little plastic things at the end of the laces were called again. After a few seconds, I couldn’t help myself and dared to peek up.

    He reached for the cup. Placing it under the spout, he pressed the button that releases the sweet, bubbly liquid. It flowed freely into the cup and some splashed out of it, onto his arm. Another worker came up to him asking a question about something or other. I couldn’t make it out. When he answered, his lips moved slowly, forming the sounds of each word. His tongue floated along the roof of his mouth as he sounded out consonants and vowels. Each soft corner of his mouth danced while he spoke. Distracted by the conversation, he left the soda under the spigot for too long. By the time he released his finger; it was too late. Bubbles fizzed over the edge and down, along all sides of the cup, leaving it sticky with residue. He let out a little yelp, grabbed a napkin, and wiped the sides clean. He brought my drink to the counter and reached for a lid, clasping it tightly around the edges of the now filled cup. Picking out a straw from a container nearby, he tore away the wrapper. Slowly and gingerly, he plunged the straw into my cherry coke. 

    He handed my drink to me with a smile. I smiled back and walked to the table my friends had chosen. My hands sticky with soda; my body wet with sweat.