The jukebox played a final note and stilled. Carly got up to put in another quarter and punched the buttons angrily. Rocket was being a jerk again.
She returned to their table and stared at his collar. The left corner was flipped up in a way that betrayed his laundry method: leave them in the basket until wearing them again. Carly hated that about him. She didn’t know why they were still dating. It wasn’t like she hadn’t tried to break up with him sixteen times this month already. At least.
Rocket loudly chewed his cheese fries, oblivious to the daggers being glared at his shirt collar.
The waitress stopped at their table. “Anything else I can get for y’all? Kitchen’s closing in a few.”
Rocket was lost in his vacant thoughts, but Carly shook her head, meeting the waitress’s gaze.
“Alrighty, here’s your check then,” she said, tearing the top sheet off her pad.
Carly slid it from the edge of the table and flipped it over. She pulled her wallet out and dropped some bills on top.
“I’m done, Rocket. You’re locked from the inside, and I can’t open you up. You have to do it yourself.”
She stood up and left.
Rocket was down to the crumbs at the bottom of his basket. He watched the waitress retrieve the money from the corner of his eye and mumbled, “keep it.” She gave him a look that he never saw, and kept it.
The cook had to shoo him from the table, and once outside, Rocket jammed his hands in his coat pockets and started to whistle God Bless America. No one else was around to object.
Today’s Daily Prompt:
Have you ever gone to a new place or tried a new experience and thought to yourself, “I’m never doing that again!” Tell us about it.
I think I did tell you about it. Let’s have a look.
I did not; I only told you about the blueberries in the bread pudding.
We went to a “steakhouse” that a friend of ours raves about–a couple friends of ours, actually.
Have you ever craved a nice steak and eaten one, only for it to be so unsteaklike that you felt that you hadn’t even eaten a steak?
That sums up our trip.
Three of us ordered the same steak, ribeye, and none of them tasted the same. I don’t remember what cut my mother ordered, but hers tasted different from our three. Some bites were sweet, some savory, some bland.
My steak was stringy and sinewy and hard to cut with the dull knives they supplied.
The baked potatoes were fine, until the middle of the night when both of us who’d had them got sick.
The potatoes au gratin were large chunks of potato in a cheese sauce, some not entirely cooked.
The waitress was unpleasant.
And then, of course, the bread pudding was covered with blueberries.
I didn’t just think it; we all said it.