Note: In trying to expand

my writing styles I have been reading outside of my normal literary repertoire

(yeah, like I have one). I wrote this shortly after reading a couple of

"Romance" novels, not to mention too many visits to McDonald's.

The night was brisk. The November

moon dipped, plunged below the majestic arches. Reflections of love glimmered

in the glass doors like sprites dancing in a midsummer's night sky. Looking

longingly upward into the glowing, radiant menu board, the customer pursed

her lips to mouth the words so many trainees long to hear. "Big Mac,"

she said.

Stroking her hands gracefully

along the Formica counter, Helene gazed patiently into his eyes. Before

she could speak, Dirk asked, "Would you like fries with that?"

She gasped a quick breath, hoping he didn't hear her murmur. Flushing

inside, she leaned closer, closer still, "Apple pie."

Somewhere between Utopia and

bypass surgery lies the meaning of life. The chocolate of milkshakes flows

smoothly into the mouths of foolish men and the vanilla of ice cream cones

is wasted on the lips of babes. "One baked apple pie for your delight,"

he feted with a smile. Helene grasped the brown, supple bag and strode

to the booth as if it had been created just for her on this day.

A feeling of happiness came

over me as I moved to my place at the counter. "McChicken Combo and

super size it," I stated with the conviction of an Amish elder turning

down a cell phone salesman. "There will be a five-minute wait for

fries," said Dirk.

Anger burned across my soul

like reporters trailing Tom Cruise. I lurched toward Dirk with a vengeance!

He pitched back just in time. Only, he landed right in the arms of Tiffany,

the polyester-clad assistant night manager in training. Their eyes met

in a long embrace. The silence was deafening.

"If loving you is unhealthy,

then I'm a Bacon Double Cheeseburger," said Dirk.

"And I, McNuggets with

a shake," responded Tiffany.

I felt for a moment, like I

was slipping, spinning from their clasp. Then I noticed the sign below

me, "Caution, Wet Floors." Like sands from an hour glass, time

had run out. The buzzer was singing and so was my pulse. My fries were

ready.

I turned to make my exit only

to hear, "No, no, no, no, no!" Helene bounded to her feet with

bag in hand. She made her way to the counter with the passion of a 13-year-old

boy on his way to see "Spiderman" for the third time.

"You forgot the ketchup!"

she said.

"But, but," cried

Dirk.

Helene interrupted, "What

is wrong with you? I need ketchup!"

Dirk yet tried to speak, only

to be cut off by Helene again, "Can I please have some ketchup?"

She was the sort born of rogues and Vikings.

Dirk finally reasoned, "The

ketchup is behind you ma'am ..."

All the restaurant stood quiet.

Helene then, standing motionless, ashen, seemingly about to implode, said

the words so many trainees long to hear: "Thank you."