A Surreal End To A Five-Year Marriage In A Fast Food Restaurant
By Bee Jones
He gruffly hammered out his standard 2-ply bacon-encrusted burger order and quickly snapped, “That’s it.” Apparently he was not going to pay for my $4 burger, despite it being my third trip from Baltimore to accommodate him. We sat down and avoided eye contact. I looked at him and nearly gasped at his masculine beauty. “I’m willingly walking away from this?” He looked into my eyes – our identical green eyes locked – and it was all I could do to control the urge to cry hysterically.
He handed me the divorce paperwork. I skimmed for inconsistencies and added the appropriate information. I ate my burger mechanically, making a great deal of effort to not spill ketchup on the life-changing, chaos-inducing paperwork. I looked around Five Guys; I wasn’t wearing glasses so I don’t know where the day’s french fries originated from, but I did see the overweight clerk with too much lip liner staring us down.
We’re getting divorced in a Five Guys. We’re getting divorced in a Five Guys. We’re getting divorced in a Five Guys.
“You’re shaking a lot.” He observed.
“I am signing divorce paperwork in a fast food restaurant.” I replied.
We went to UPS where a worn looking notary named Pam officiated the paperwork. If I had to guess what she was thinking it would be: A. Not surprised (military IDs), B. So young! (Being a 24 year old divorcee is better than 40, right?), and probably C. Wow, they are attractive.
We left. “Are you going to want the cats when you get a real place?”
I put my sunglasses on, as I could feel the heat in my cheeks and the pressure behind my eyes that mean I’m about to crack.
“Yes.”
We reached the parting place in the shitty, run down strip mall. He put on his, my, old Harley helmet. He started to turn away and I hugged him. It was the awkward hug of acquaintances or relatives you don’t especially like: ass out, hands patting.
“Maybe one day we can be friends, and like hang out again.”
I was already suppressing a full blown manic breakdown and all I could squeal out was, “Maybe.”
We left. I manually unlocked the door to my shitty Hyundai and slammed myself behind the wheel. I fumbled with my iPod and bowed my head against the wheel and shrieked. I locked the door out of my brand new paranoid Baltimore-habit and cried. I watched people watching me cry and didn’t care. I rarely emote. I didn’t care. I heard his Honda Shadow growl by; I knew he saw me, head down and shaking. I didn’t care.
“I wanted this. I wanted this. I wanted this. I wanted this.”