The Drive-Thru

The drive-thru was the only place I could disappear without leaving my car.

There was something comforting about becoming a window instead of a person.

No eye contact.

No conversation.

Just an order number replacing my name.

I knew the menu so well I could recite it before the speaker crackled to life.

Sometimes I’d practice restraint before I even arrived.

“No fries.”

“Just the sandwich.”

“Water.”

The words always sounded believable until I heard my own voice through that little metal box.

“Actually…”

It’s amazing how often a life changes after the word actually.

The brake lights ahead glowed like confession candles.

Every car waiting its turn.

Every driver pretending they weren’t making another promise they’d apologize for tomorrow.

The smell reached me before the food ever did.

It climbed through the vents like someone whispering,

“Just this once.”

Funny.

“This once” always seemed to happen around the same time tomorrow.

I used to park before going home.

I’d eat in silence.

Windows cracked.

Radio off.

I’d fold the bag smaller than it needed to be.

Hide the cup beneath the seat.

Brush the salt off my shirt.

Then I’d walk inside and answer the question.

“Did you already eat?”

Not with words.

With,

“I’m not that hungry.”

The passenger seat never judged me.

It simply kept every secret I asked it to hold.

French fries beneath the seat rail.

A straw wrapper in the door pocket.

A receipt tucked under yesterday’s receipt.

Tiny pieces of evidence waiting for someone who never came looking.

People think the hardest part is saying no to the food.

It isn’t.

The hardest part is realizing how much of your life has been arranged around making sure no one watches you say yes.