Tom & Margie Go to Wendy's

Margie

She sat there staring at the food-encrusted table, and felt her old body against the discomfort of the rickety wooden chair. The decor was disgusting, really. It was a conglomeration of mundane teals and beige that just reminded her of hospitals. The brown-tinted window did nothing to hide the awful interior from the outside world.

She looked up from the table over to the counter and saw the unnaturally red-haired girl smiling at her above the menu.

“What do you have to be happy about, Wendy?” Margie asked, accusingly.

She returned to eating her dinner. She'd ordered a large Frosty because there was no point in keeping weight off any longer. But she knew her appetite would prevent her from eating the entire thing. The side effect of old age mixed with the sadness of loss. She couldn't believe he was gone. After 27 years together, Teddy had left her all alone. She reached into the box of large fries, and her crooked fingers grazed a cold, sweaty stick. She pulled it out. Still frozen.

“How did they miss this one? Just my damn luck.”

Tom

He had put on his best tweed suit to take himself out to dinner. It was silly, but he loved to go to Wendy's and sit in their “spot.” His wife had been gone 10 years now, but he never wanted to forget traditions like these. He always sat in the closest spot facing the window on the left. He and Vivian would sit on the same side of the table so they could look outside and watch the people pass — the dogs, the couples holding hands, and the pear trees lining the curb. Sometimes these didn’t seem like memories, and Tom liked to imagine Vivian had simply gone to the restroom and would be back soon. But Tom realistically knew she wasn't coming, so he only ordered one Jr. Bacon Cheeseburger and a small vanilla Frosty. He never liked french fries, but he still got them out of habit, for her.

Margie

Every night now, she woke thinking his head would be resting on her chest as it had done for so many years. It never was.

“I don’t have many years left,” She thought. “ Why couldn’t you have waited for me?”

She shifted in the seat and thought about her younger years sitting on very similar chairs in a very similar restaurant. Back then, she wore jean shorts that exposed her legs to the vinyl seat covering. She remembered the sting when she shifted her legs, which were adhered to the plastic with sweat, as skin pulled apart from it. She hadn’t worn shorts for several years now. No one wanted to see her wrinkly thighs — varicose veins sprouting in all directions like the roots of a tree that's run out of the room to expand. She also hated her hair. It used to be red — a natural red, unlike Wendy’s. Now it was grey and crisp, and no amount of conditioner could take away its coarseness. She could do nothing with it, so it was pulled into a disheveled bun falling to the right side of her head. When she realized she was staring into space, she returned to her soggy bun and took a bite with veneered incisors.

Tom

He toted the familiar brown tray to their table. He made sure to get lots of ketchup in those tiny white paper cups on the way— Vivian always scolded him for not getting enough. The cups were always so impractical because they became damp after a while, and he and Vivian always joked about designing their own plastic ones and bringing them along.

As soon as he situated himself in the chair, he realized today would be different. Instead of looking straight out the window, he found a woman in his view. He had never seen someone — except Vivian, of course — pull off gray hair so well. It was grouped into a tousled bun on the side of her head, and wisps of stray hair framed her face. She wore a lovely black sweater with a knitted floral pattern, which was slimming. The mismatched pinstripe slacks had the same effect. She wore red lipstick, and he could see it was not perfectly in the lines. It was this eloquent disarray that made her so intriguing to Tom. He wondered if he should talk to her. Vivian would understand that life can get a little lonely, right? Especially after 10 years without her. “Should I talk to her? What if she's married? It's not easy to find someone at this age. What would I even say? Hi, I think you’re lovely? No. That's too forward, Tom. But what if she isn't married and I miss my chance?”

Margie

She wasn’t ready to go back to that empty house. The couch, the bedsheets, the carpets all still smell like him. Even her clothes now had carried his perpetual scent with them. It was better, she thought, to smell the grease here instead. The smell of high school students working their first jobs, and single moms working their third shift of the day. She took a sip of her Diet Coke. She hated those new machines, the fancy ones that had too many choices. What happened to plain old Coke? No one wants grape-flavored Cola. It reminded her of the cough medicine she gave her daughter when she was sick as a child. Disgusting.

Tom

He didn't see a ring on her finger, so that was a good sign. Imagine, a man like him trying to pick up a girl at Wendy's. He wondered what her life was like. Did she live in a big house or a small house? An apartment? Did she have pets? What was her name? He could always just ask her. It could just be a friendly gesture. He imagined what her smile would be like. He imagined making her smile with that old joke about Civil War soldiers walking into a bar.

“Don't get carried away, Tom. You're here for Viv. This was your tradition with her. There's no need to make it about someone else...even if she is beautiful.”

Margie

She looked down at the watch she always wore and was surprised the hands were still ticking. She'd been there for 2 hours. Maybe it was time to go back. Her soap operas would be starting soon. She prepared herself to get out of the chair — bad knees made it difficult, and a bad back too. Everything was bad. Then, she hoisted herself up with hands grasping the edge of the table. Her finger grazed a revolting lump of discarded gum underneath. She wondered if she even had to wash her hands, or if the gum germs just died in the air. As she collected her trash, she noticed a man was staring at her. He was wearing a brown tweed suit.

“What is he looking at?”

Tom

Oh no, he thought. She was leaving. He was going to miss his chance! What if he never saw her again? Never even knew her name? Think fast, Tom, she’s walking toward the door! He jumped to his feet with as much oomph as a man in his 70s could muster. He scooted over to her and dropped a pen behind her back onto the floor.

“Oh, hello, Miss. I think you dropped your pen!” He picked it up and offered it to her with an outstretched hand. She turned and squinted her eyebrows at him. She hadn’t brought a pen with her.

“Oh...thank you.” She grabbed the pen, turned back toward the door, and walked out.

Tom sighed. Maybe it wasn’t meant to be.

Margie

Margie got into her dated Volvo. There were crumpled Wendy’s bags littering the passenger’s seat and dashboard. She really needed to find a new restaurant, she thought. Her hands gripped the steering wheel weakly, and the right middle finger elevated slightly due to arthritis. She sighed and made her steady way home.

As she pulled into her driveway, birdseed tossed aside by those pesky squirrels crunched under the tires.

“I’ll have to fill up the feeder.” She grunted. “Later.”

She hobbled over to the back door and extracted her keys from a purse full of discarded cough drop wrappers and pennies. She finagled the lock open and both welcomed and hated the familiar smell of her home. It wafted from the basement and through the musty air. The odor was as pungent in this room as it was at its source. It came from the still-unclean litter box of a the dead cat, Teddy.