By Chris Scott
He chose the place, so right off the bat that was a relief. No tedious back-and-forth or awkward negotiation or anything. The restaurant he picked was funny: The Hardee’s in Bartonville, Illinois, the one there at the bottom of the hill. The one you drive by all the time, shoebox with a red roof. There was no way he could have known this but also he must have known that’s where my grandma used to take me when I got a decent report card or did good in gymnastics or was feeling sad about my mom. Even though I live out east in the city now, he arranged the flight and cab and everything.
I got to Hardee’s a little early but he was earlier, waiting for me in a booth, smirking like he knew this was an ironic place for a first date kind of but not really. How did he know to pick that booth? I didn’t want to ask, break the spell. But we clicked, whatever clicking means these days. He asked all kinds of questions about me, my job, my art classes, even what my dreams are like, what my commute is like, what my friends are like, little things. He was interested in all of it, kind of shy at charming moments, staring at his tray where the grease had stained the paper transparent, one shaped a little like a heart.
We did have sex after, twice, in his car, the windows all fogged up like Titanic. It was good, not incredible, maybe not quite enough emotion, maybe too much kissing with tongue, but I was ready for all of it, I told him. I was ready, and he was ready, and so we did get married right then and there in the parking lot of the Hardee’s in Bartonville with the sun setting in the distance and semis speeding by honking congratulations, with just a few friends and family and a priest who could get there on such short notice, my cousin who I hadn’t seen in six years, she said grandma would’ve loved this. She said, your mom would have loved this, and I knew she was right, she’s right, spinning me around in circles, music blaring from somebody’s pick-up truck, champagne drunk and heels on asphalt, her kids shooting roman candles into the night.
And him. He never stopped smiling through all of this, the sodium lights of the parking lot gentle on his face somehow, handsome but not overly so, not enough to make me nervous, kind and steady, sweet, joyful. That’s the word. The kind of joy you can’t fake, even before the night had ended and we knew this was over, even if we couldn’t name the reason. His big stupid yearning smile still frozen in my vision. I’ll never be able to blink it away, wherever he’s gone off to now.
Then the sounds of morning, birds sharing a joke about me sitting there in the gravel alone, signing the divorce papers as the sun cracked the sky open. Grateful, I thought, I mean sad but grateful, my grandma holding my hand from someplace while I wrote my name over and over, and the whole time she was saying, you did so good honey, it was really amazing. The vows and the dancing and the colors and the lights, it was exactly how I always pictured it, how I wanted it for you. I’m so proud of you, sweetheart. It was just perfect.
Chris Scott’s work has appeared in The New Yorker, The New York Observer, Maudlin House, Flash Fiction Magazine, Weird Lit Magazine, The Fantastic Other, Flash Frog, and elsewhere. He is a regular contributor for ClickHole, and an elementary school teacher in Washington, DC. You can read more of his writing at https://www.chrisscottwrites.com.
MoonPark Review 