The fat lady loves the short order cook.

His eyes she loves.  She loves his teeth, his

walk, his apron.  She loves his radio station.  His air conditioner, grown hairy on the fan screen from sucking greasy air, gives her shivers.  There is nothing about him she

does not love.  She loves.  O how she loves.  His B.L.T. on brown oozes mayo.  Positively oozes.  His Denvers, open, are to her open prairies.  The diced onions, green peppers,

the flecks of parsley are fascinating

geographic formations, like those found

south of Chyenne, Wyoming, near

Denver.  This latter thought, in all its

majesty occurred close to twilight on one

of the first warm nights in June.  She was

watching, from her usual stool at the

counter, the early flies of summer court

shamelessly in the sugar on the plate

containing the last two bismarks (two for 45,

she loves his prices) and she thought yes,

this is love, shameless, exuberant, as

limitless as imagination.  Chewing the

Denver, open, her mind-eye beheld,

with a clarity that made her swoon, her

and the short order cook, walking hand in

hand among the flowers on the plains, near

Denver Colorado.  Such is her love.

 

Her love is purple mounted majesties and

fruited plains.  Not even the first flies of

summer can love like she loves.

 

It is late evening now and the short order

cook has turned off the grill and scraped it

clean with a pumice stone and vinegar.

He has stacked the dishes and covered all 

the perishables with Saran.  He has wiped

down all couner space.  He has remembered to take the hamburger from the freezer for tomorrow and to turn off the grill fan.

Before cashing out, he steps out back for 

a smoke.  The evening star, shining and

mysterious as love itself, is in its place in

the sky.  Leaning against the back door the

short order cook takes one last puff and

flicks the butt into the back alley.

While cashing out he slips a fiver into

his back pocket.  Why should I bust my balls

for a lousy five bucks an hour.  He hates

his prices.  But it's not a bad job as jobs go.

I mean a guy's got to eat, am I right.

But sometimes the people get to ya, know

what I mean, eating with their mouth open

so nasty.  You get so you don't even see 'em,

after all these years I can't tell one from the

other.