Average American Male by Chad Kultgen Page A

look at me as she says, “Do you always order things that aren’t on the menu?”
    I say, “Sometimes. Not always.”
    She still can’t deal with it. She says, “It’s just kind of strange. They have a whole variety of items that contain scrambled eggs. I just don’t know why any one of those dishes isn’t good enough.”
    And it’s right then that I know I never want to see this woman again. I never want to hear her voice and I never want to placate her just to make Casey happy and I never want to deal with her in any way.
    The waiter comes back with our drinks just as Casey’s mom is getting fired up about my eggs. She calms down. As he leaves, she changes the topic of conversation entirely with, “Casey, your father wanted me to tell you that he’s really sorry he couldn’t come out and he wishes he was here, but he has to work.”
    Casey says, “Yeah, I know. He already told me.”
    Their voices trail off into nothing as I stare at this guy and girl sitting a few tables away from us. The girl isn’t amazingly hot, but she’s pretty good-looking and has what looks to be a nice set of tits. They’re all over each other. The guy is rubbing her stomach and she’s running her hands through his hair. Every now and then they kiss like they’re going to fuck each other right there at the table.
    I guess I watch them for a while because I’m still watching them when our food comes to the table probably ten minutes later.
    As he gives me my eggs, the waiter says, “Here’s your special plate of scrambled eggs with nothing else in them.”
    I say, “Thanks.”
    Casey and her mom both cringe again.
    He leaves after asking if we need anything else and the following conversation begins:
    Casey’s mom takes a bite of her blueberry pancakes and says, “So after we eat I thought just you and I could go back to your place, Casey, so we can get started on everything.”
    Casey says, “Yeah, that sounds good. You won’t mind just dropping us off, right?”
    I say, “No.”
    Casey’s mom says, “You wouldn’t want to be involved in this anyway. It’s really very boring . . . unless you’re a woman.” Then she laughs. So does Casey.
    It’s right then that I realize I never want to be Casey’s chauffeur again.
    I chew my eggs while I stare at the guy and girl who are definitely about to go somewhere and fuck after they finish their waffles. I try to remember a time when Casey was like that, and even though the memory doesn’t come easily, there definitely was a time. I decide that all bitches eventually cool down and lose interest.
    Then Casey says, “I’ll just give you a call tomorrow morning and maybe we can all go out and eat breakfast again or something.”
    Her mom says, “Well, maybe we should just play it by ear.”
    Casey says, “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
    It’s right at that moment that I realize I never want to be dismissed or taken for granted by Casey or her mother again. I never want to play the role they expect of me. For a split second I feel bad for the guy who I’m sure is going to be in this situation a few years from now, but at that moment it becomes crystal clear to me that when I walk out of the Griddle, I will not be engaged to this woman’s daughter.
    In the following minute that passes, nobody says anything, but the blood pounding in my head and my teeth grinding down on pieces of scrambled eggs and Casey licking the jelly off her lips and the fake smile that’s been on her mom’s face since we walked in and the general rage that’s built up in me over the course of our relationship all boils down to the following seven words: I say, “I don’t think we should get married.” As the words come, I feel no immediate liberation. I feel no significant change. But something, some dark, twisted knot in the pit of my stomach that I never really even knew existed, seems to loosen up a bit—just a little bit.
    Her mom says, “Excuse me?”
    Casey’s mouth is just hanging