It all started on a lovely day in March. I needed sweet tea and waffle fries. I needed them BAD.
I walk in to my neighborhood Chick Fil A, expecting a nice, uneventful dinner. I had a book to read, and some waffle fries to eat. I place my order with the effervescent checker, who becomes even more sparkly when I respond to his banter. Word to the wise, when a man asks you if you like sweet tea, never respond with "It makes life worth living."
I find a spot in the middle of the restaurant, and wait for my number to be called. Imagine my surprise when my meal is personally delivered by Mr. Bubbly. He sets down my tray and grins. I smile back. Encouraged by my general friendliness and acknowledgement that he's a fellow human being, he draws close and whispers delicately, "Uhm, can I have yo number, Danielle?"
Whether he doesn't see that I was reading "It's Called a Breakup Because It's Broken", or chooses to view it as a flashing THIS GIRL IS HURTING AND NEEDS SOME LOVIN' sign, we'll never know.
I freeze, my mouth open in shock. My deer-in-the-headlights face is in perfect form. He shakes it off and walks away, mumbling something along the lines of, "S'all right, girl." I recover my wits too late and he's already gone.
About halfway through my meal he sneaks up to me and asks if I would like a refill. I smile nervously and nod.
Oh, crap! What if he does something to my sweet tea?! But it's too late. He's already halfway across the restaurant, my poor defenseless beverage in tow. Everything is in slow motion, like a bad horror movie. Luckily his beverage intentions were pure.
I try to sneak out when I finish eating, but he's too quick. "I'll see you next time, Danielle!" Eff. I never went inside that restaurant again.
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