evening to stand before us and pledge their infinite love before they face the great beyond.”
The violinist unwrapped a stick of gum and shoved it in her mouth. “Any requests?”
Riley reached out and touched one of her slippery sleeves. It was like dangling his fingers in a current, catching a rush of cool water on its way to somewhere else.
“Something that smells like the ocean,” he said.
The violinist made an okay, weirdo face. She obliged with the romantic theme from a cruise-ship-disaster movie.
The music swelled, a procession of swoons. Peter (Pierre) rattled his notebook and began to chant. He chanted soft verses about infinite adhesiveness and the deathless bloom of rapture and Rachel and Riley seized each other’s hands as uninvited words fell from their lips, I promise and forever and until we are parted . All the smells from dinner began to take form. Rachel and Riley saw ribbons of liquid color swirling around them, tangling in their hair, tying them together. Everything was possible. They would sew New York and California together. They would invent a new planet. They would live on the moon, at the bottom of the sea, on an island in a castle of rocks and sticks and sand.
“BY THE LIMITED POWER INVESTED IN ME,” boomed Peter (Pierre), “I now pronounce you married in the sovereign state of L’Amour Food!”
They turned to look at him. Everything blurred, as if they were peering through the puckery plastic of David’s clear umbrella. They blinked fast and squinted. Their hearts clenched. They saw a vast red beard, two gleams of green, a pair of rough tanned hands hoisting the notebook high above his head.
The console popped loudly and set off a spark. Raw tingles shot through their noses. Rachel and Riley ripped out the tubes.
Peter (Pierre) said, “Congratulations, mes cheres !” He was himself again. Just a waiter.
A wave of sick damp heat swept over them. They clutched their chairs. On the plate between their coffee cups, the strawberries seemed to throb like little ripped-out hearts.
“Uh, Pete?” Clara (Claire) pointed at them with her violin bow. “They don’t look so good.”
***
The waiter was driving them home.
His car, a stubby two-door painted dark metallic green, scuttled through the back roads like a beetle about to be overturned. The windows were down. He had surrendered his accent so he could sob more efficiently about Chef Antoinette, who had dismissed him from his post when she heard he’d tried to marry two underage customers.
“…I said, ‘Toni, you don’t understand. Love spoke to me with urgency. If I can’t have you, then can I not make the lives of others happy?’ And she said, ‘Frankly, Peter, I think you need to be medicated.’ As if there’s a pill for this!” He turned up the volume on “Total Eclipse of the Heart.” “You don’t know how lucky you are. To have each other truly, even for a short while. That’s why I used the shaker on you…”
Rachel and Riley rode in the backseat, which was cluttered with hamburger wrappers and scribbled-on napkins. They didn’t ask what a shaker was, because love was speaking to them with urgency. Their noses blazed with pain. Familiar Puckatoe smells deviled them at each stop sign and traffic light—all of them romantic now, as if they’d been on separate coasts for months and had just returned for a holiday. The earthy funk of cow pies made them ache inside. Papa D’s special sauce nearly brought them to tears.
“—a drowning man, Toni!” Peter (Pierre) was grumbling. “She has ripped out my bones and spat on them! I am a husk with no eyes, no nose, no consciousness—Where do you live?”
“Here’s good,” said Riley.
The car yanked onto the shoulder of Elmhurst, two streets before Donnybrook Lane. Rachel and Riley got out, muttering thanks. Their waiter looked very small behind the steering wheel, which was covered with imitation tiger fur.
“Where do I go now?” said Peter
The violinist unwrapped a stick of gum and shoved it in her mouth. “Any requests?”
Riley reached out and touched one of her slippery sleeves. It was like dangling his fingers in a current, catching a rush of cool water on its way to somewhere else.
“Something that smells like the ocean,” he said.
The violinist made an okay, weirdo face. She obliged with the romantic theme from a cruise-ship-disaster movie.
The music swelled, a procession of swoons. Peter (Pierre) rattled his notebook and began to chant. He chanted soft verses about infinite adhesiveness and the deathless bloom of rapture and Rachel and Riley seized each other’s hands as uninvited words fell from their lips, I promise and forever and until we are parted . All the smells from dinner began to take form. Rachel and Riley saw ribbons of liquid color swirling around them, tangling in their hair, tying them together. Everything was possible. They would sew New York and California together. They would invent a new planet. They would live on the moon, at the bottom of the sea, on an island in a castle of rocks and sticks and sand.
“BY THE LIMITED POWER INVESTED IN ME,” boomed Peter (Pierre), “I now pronounce you married in the sovereign state of L’Amour Food!”
They turned to look at him. Everything blurred, as if they were peering through the puckery plastic of David’s clear umbrella. They blinked fast and squinted. Their hearts clenched. They saw a vast red beard, two gleams of green, a pair of rough tanned hands hoisting the notebook high above his head.
The console popped loudly and set off a spark. Raw tingles shot through their noses. Rachel and Riley ripped out the tubes.
Peter (Pierre) said, “Congratulations, mes cheres !” He was himself again. Just a waiter.
A wave of sick damp heat swept over them. They clutched their chairs. On the plate between their coffee cups, the strawberries seemed to throb like little ripped-out hearts.
“Uh, Pete?” Clara (Claire) pointed at them with her violin bow. “They don’t look so good.”
***
The waiter was driving them home.
His car, a stubby two-door painted dark metallic green, scuttled through the back roads like a beetle about to be overturned. The windows were down. He had surrendered his accent so he could sob more efficiently about Chef Antoinette, who had dismissed him from his post when she heard he’d tried to marry two underage customers.
“…I said, ‘Toni, you don’t understand. Love spoke to me with urgency. If I can’t have you, then can I not make the lives of others happy?’ And she said, ‘Frankly, Peter, I think you need to be medicated.’ As if there’s a pill for this!” He turned up the volume on “Total Eclipse of the Heart.” “You don’t know how lucky you are. To have each other truly, even for a short while. That’s why I used the shaker on you…”
Rachel and Riley rode in the backseat, which was cluttered with hamburger wrappers and scribbled-on napkins. They didn’t ask what a shaker was, because love was speaking to them with urgency. Their noses blazed with pain. Familiar Puckatoe smells deviled them at each stop sign and traffic light—all of them romantic now, as if they’d been on separate coasts for months and had just returned for a holiday. The earthy funk of cow pies made them ache inside. Papa D’s special sauce nearly brought them to tears.
“—a drowning man, Toni!” Peter (Pierre) was grumbling. “She has ripped out my bones and spat on them! I am a husk with no eyes, no nose, no consciousness—Where do you live?”
“Here’s good,” said Riley.
The car yanked onto the shoulder of Elmhurst, two streets before Donnybrook Lane. Rachel and Riley got out, muttering thanks. Their waiter looked very small behind the steering wheel, which was covered with imitation tiger fur.
“Where do I go now?” said Peter
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