The Madison Review Fall 2017

the madison review

I look at her.

“You know, the driver that comes in here from out east?” she says.

“I bet there’s things in his life he’d like to change but can’t, and so he settles for little things he’s got right now. I’m sure he loves his wife and all, but I’ve seen the way he flirts with you, and...”

I slam a plate down on the counter. The restaurant stares at us.

The only sound at all is Loretta Lynn’s warbling.

“Mind your fucking business, Cheryl,” I whisper.

“What’s your mom do?” Cole asks.

“Clerk somewhere.”

“What’s your dad do?”

“What dad?”

The music is fucking loud in here. The barflies have lost count of their drinks and are swaying together to Rascal Flatts in the spaces between tables. An obese woman in a black turtleneck and costume jewelry shimmies next to a slouching man in a winter coat. He wears a godhonest smile on his withered face. I empty my glass.

“What do you study?” I ask.

“Gen eds and some design classes right now,” he says. “Transferring to U of A next year though, for architecture.”

“You want to be an architect?”

“Nah, I want to be a hot air balloon pilot.”

“You know, you think you’re real funny,” I say, and take a sip of his beer. “But you’re not all that funny.”

“How about cute?”

“Jury’s out.”

He’s cute, though. He’s cleaned up a bit. Well, he’s got a buttondown shirt on. Could use a razor. For my part, I’ve still got on my slacks and green polo from the Skillet and I probably smell like hash browns. At least I remembered to take my name tag off.

“What do you want to do with your life, Shannon?” he asks.

I grind my teeth, but decide to answer anyway. “I don’t know. Really. If I could draw a bigger paycheck waiting tables, I suppose I’d do that forever.”

“What if someone paid you for something you enjoy?”

“Like drinking whiskey on a stack of shipping pallets?”

“Something like that.”

We meet eyes for a second, but that’s all.

“I like working on cars,” I say. “I don’t get to do it much though.

Maybe I’ll go to trade school or something.”

“There you go.”

Then we say nothing. Cole runs a fingertip around the rim of his 14