Freaky Fryday
Flirtation is not easy. You have to get certain things right. Some pickup lines work, most don’t. Did you start the encounter over an app? What about a meet cute? Or is this connection borne from furtive glances across the room?
How much ‘game’ do you have?
How much do I have?
Almost none.
But this isn’t about me.
No, this is about taking things just a little too far with someone who hasn’t set the boundaries yet. The PG boundaries. The ‘get-to-know-you’ rules stages. The moments when flirtation can turn to frustration. A pretty face masks simple pettiness. When small gestures of favor can unwittingly lead to furious rage.
This story is, of course, about fries.
Whether it’s wrapped in wax paper, plastic trays, or in this case, a styrofoam clamshell, drunk food hits the spot like no other fine dining experience can. Despite what actually calls for a Gatorade and maybe a banana, our lizard brain screams for fried food to soak up the alcohol we willingly drank mere minutes or hours ago.
Fried food more than anything. A burger, too, perhaps. That hangover in the morning? Hair of the Dog and eggs. Lots of eggs. And bacon and sausage. Some toast, too.
Finding a bar that serves breakfast more conveniently than McDonald’s is exceedingly rare, however. What most have are French fries.
Glorious, crispy, warm to the touch, aromatic of salt and fat. Fries are the perfect drunk food for that place in our mind that calls for it, even though we may be constantly lying to ourselves.
But what happens when someone, some man, intrudes on that French fried delight?
Nothing if he’s careful.
The Woman leaned against the brick wall, tenderly picking up each individual French fry and placing it on the tip of her tongue, gauging the heat. Delicate hands on each French fry. The red and white checkered wax paper lining the clamshell fluttered each time the door opened and closed. It’s cold, but not too cold. Not quite transitioning from Spring to Summer. The Woman is balancing the heat of her french fries with the intermittent breeze.
The Man has made eyes at here for the past 30 minutes.
Without words of her own, The Woman responds in kind.
The Man approaches, inching closer. The Woman offers a french fry. They lock eyes here and there. Exchange smiles. The Woman even stops a fry before her mouth to introduce herself. The Man. The Woman. Game, equal on each side.
The clamshell is now open. The Woman picks up a few french fries and places them on the upturned lid. A sign of goodwill. An offering. This could go somewhere, she thinks. A dollop of ketchup. coats the edge of checkered paper. A dip. A plunge.
A grab.
The Woman saw it coming, but couldn’t react quite enough in time. Playful, sure, but one side was hers. One side his. The boundaries were set, and he shouldn’t interfere.
One issue.
The Man’s friends were calling, rather, sounding the rally cry for retreat to the next bar. They were not as lucky as The Man. The group decided it was better off as a whole to leave, even though one integral member was about to negotiate further terms.
The Woman sent a playful slap to The Man’s hand. These are mine, Those are yours. Stay a while and you can have more.
The Man told her to look at something in the distance. A ruse as old as time.
The Woman fell for it. The Man reached to her side, snatched a handful all for himself.
French fries. One tender and serene, delicate to the touch, now ran afoul by just another boy from the bar.
Punishment was harsh. And severe.
The Man didn’t get two steps away from The Woman without a left hook coming straight for his right temple. Contact. The tray of fries in her right hand was moving fast, upward, and angled to The Man’s head.
Two more steps each outside. The clamshell in disarray. Salt, grease, condiment juice. Anger, rage, fury.
Two more steps and they were fully on the sidewalk, one running from the other. The Woman brought another closed fist, this time right haymaker that narrowly missed The Man. She squares up, reloads, then takes two more steps while The Man is attempting to laugh it off.
POW
Right cross.
SWACK
Left kick.
WHOOSH
Another missed punch, but the effort still present.
The Man took too many steps away to involve himself any longer.
What of his group?
They couldn’t believe it. She really did just beat his ass over some damn french fries. And they loved it.
“That’s Jackie Chan’s daughter, right there!”
“Nah, man, that’s that Chun Li.”
“On God,” one said in agreement.
“Street Fighter shit!”
The aftermath was clear. Every onlooker was the winner. Hands down.
The Man had to come back to now beg his friends to leave the bar they were all trying to escape not five minutes ago. A loss all around. From getting lucky to getting seasoning deep in his waves.
The Woman, a TKO for sure, but not without its penalty.
“There’s ketchup in MY HAIR,” she cried out.
Flirtation is a slippery slope. One moment you're sending a peace offering. Fries for affection.
And the next one of your girlfriends is using bar napkins and hand sanitizer to squeeze and clean thick clumps of ketchup from your hair after you punched a man twice in the head for stealing your french fries.
Now That’s Amore.
