How appetizing.
In the window of the taxidermist, I notice there’s a sale going on for mounted deer heads. I also notice the venison sausage is on special at Mamma’s Place, according to a white board on the sidewalk. I point out this unsettling fact to Dylan.
“You might want to avoid ordering meat in this place,” she says. When we walk in, I look around at all of the stuffed squirrel bodies and deer heads that clutter the restaurant walls and shelves. I assume they get a discount.
The restaurant is filled with local patrons in cowboy hats and dirty baseball caps. Denim appears to be the rural fashion trend. I realize why it’s so busy—we’ve made the early bird special.
Dylan scoots into a booth and I almost slip in right next to her out of habit, until I remember she isn’t mine and I have a pretend girlfriend and Dylan has an over-achieving, smart, outdoorsy boyfriend who could model for a Patagonia catalogue with all his stupid dogs. I hope they get married and own a dog shelter together and start a reality show about their stupid, charitable, perfect life.
For some reason, I feel the pathetic need to annoy Dylan, because her presence is sexually annoying the crap out of me. I had a hard-on three times last night, and one this morning. It’s like a headache in my pants.
Dylan opens her menu and I open mine and the waitress comes up and asks if we’re ready to order. I order coffee and Dylan orders lemonade, and then I clear my throat.
“I have a question,” I ask the waitress, but I pin my eyes directly on Dylan’s. “I was wondering which was moister.” I say moister slowly and delicately, giving every consonant and vowel carful enunciation. “The cinnamon rolls, or the muffins?”
Dylan scrunches her nose like she smells something foul. When we first met she told me what her three least favorite words were. Her long term memory sucks, but mine is prolific. It’s one of my weaknesses. I remember everything. The challenge is to try and forget.
I look away from Dylan and smile at the waitress, an elderly woman who appears to have more red lipstick on her teeth than on her lips. She chews on the end of her pen while she considers my question.
“By moister, you mean?”
“I mean exactly that,” I say. “Moist, as in having a spongy, porous texture saturated in pockets of moisture.”
Dylan covers her mouth with one hand like she’s about to gag. She takes a long breath and blows it out slowly between her fingers.
“Ah-huh,” the waitress mumbles. “The homemade raspberry muffins are popular,” she offers.
“Great,” I say. “I’ll have one.”
I smile at Dylan’s frown. This is going to be fun. Hey, if I have to be mentally, emotionally, and sexually tormented by her presence, than the least I can do is return the torture. I’m mature like that.
Dylan narrows her eyes after the waitress walks away. “Is it torture-Dylan day?” she asks. “I hate the m-word. Passionately hate.”
“I know,” I tell her. “You hate the words moist, protoplasm and membrane.”
She sets her menu down on the table. “How do you know that?” she asks, her eyes suspicious, as if I was reading her diary.
“You told me,” I remind her. “When we first met.”
She blinks with surprise, trying to recall the memory. “I don’t remember saying that.”
I shrug. “I do.”
“What else do you remember?” she asks.
I stare at her. “Everything. It’s my curse.”
“Wow,” she says. “I have trouble remembering anything. Names. Places. Dates. I barely passed freshman history.”
Must be nice. “That’s probably why you take so many pictures,” I tell her. “It’s your way of remembering.”
She smiles at me, a Dylan smile that’s part lips and part laugh and it always catches the corners of my lips and pulls them up. Even when I fight to hold them down.
The waitress comes back with coffee for me and lemonade for Dylan. She slides a muffin down on the table.
“Did you decide on breakfast?” the waitress asks. Dylan orders the apple pancakes and I stall.
“Well, again, I’m just looking over your menu,” I say, “and I’m wondering which is moister, the pancakes or the waffles?
“Um, the French toast is popular. I think it’s moist,” the waitress offers.
“Sounds great,” I say. I close my menu and hand it to her. “I’ll have that.”
She nods and sticks her pen behind her ear and walks away.
I look down at the giant muffin. Its billowing top is as big as the entire plate. I peel a piece off and stick it in my mouth. “Mmm, that is the moistest muffin I have ever had.”