A Number Six

“Who’s next? What’ll you have, lover?’ The clerk at the fast food counter called me lover. I hadn’t heard that from a service worker since that summer in Cornwall. This woman’s southern accent was from the U.S. not the U.K., however, and her tan was permanent. We had met before, even chatted once when she was on her break. About how people were always“shopping” but seldom "buying" when interacting with the opposite sex.

“I’ll have a Number Six, for here.” My usual.

“You want cheese on that, Love?” She looked me right in the eye.

“No thanks…” She always asks, I always say no.

“That's three-fifty_one.” I handed her a five and she made change.

“How you doin” lover?” She handed me my change, and then gently squeezed my hand.

“Better. A lot better.”