Issues at Arby's

Meticulous man in fitted suit folds empty paper
cup that once held ketchup, tucks it into what
had held his fries. each one eaten by itself in small
well-measured bites with perfect teeth he flosses
twice a day. The paper on the tray he folds
in half, and half again, and two times more
until it looks to be a wee phone book for fairies
that he then inserts into the carton snugly, smugly
pleased he fit it all in such a tiny space. This is a man whose inner voice is screaming that he's tired of being neat and tidy, living all alone, but the other, steady
voices in his head still drown it out. The messiness
of women is exhausting. And if he married, as he long
ago had thought he might, what if the woman wanted children?
Dirt of all kinds clinging to their clothes and fingernails and noise.
The noise he couldn't take, he knows this absolutely,
even if he somehow could adjust to all the rest, the
tears and touching, evil smells, the drama.
Better to remain a bachelor, pretending to ignore
that woman's scrutiny from one booth over, watching from
the corner of her eyes. He cannot tell if she's impressed
by him or not, the way he picks up every crumb.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

A neat gentleman I observed at Arby's was probably not this uptight at all, but as I watched him, imagination took over.