Hello! I wanted to share a piece of fiction I’m working on. Enjoy!

“Michaels! Party of one!”

I cringed at the sound of the hostess’s voice, announcing to the rest of the waiting customers that I was a ‘party of one’. I slowly stood up from the bench where I had been patiently waiting for a table. I was surrounded by parties of two and three and four, and what appeared to be a family of seven. The hostess nodded to me, and gestured towards a waiter, who I followed across the dining floor to a small table with two chairs and a lamp in the center. He placed a menu in front of me, told me his name (Scott? Was it Scott? I think he said Scott), and said he’d give me a few minutes to look it over. In the meantime, did I want anything to drink?

“Yes,” I said. “A Pepsi, with extra ice.”

Scott flashed a ‘oh that’s cute’ smile and said he’d return in just a moment with my Pepsi. I guess he was expecting me to order something with alcohol. No matter how old I become, I will never feel grown-up enough to drink alcohol. I’ve had a few drinks with friends here and there, but nothing excessive. I especially can’t bring myself to drink when I’m alone in public. It just makes me feel pathetic for some reason.

No, no salad. Just a big, sloppy heart attack on a bun, and some fries.

I scanned the menu in search of something inexpensive and tasty, and came up with their bacon burger. Yes, eating a large burger can seem unladylike and perhaps childish, and I probably should have ordered an alcoholic drink to make myself feel more grown-up, but to hell with it. I have a job, and I work hard at it. I’ll eat whatever I damn well please. So when Scott returned with my Pepsi and asked me if I was ready to order, I proudly declared I wanted a bacon burger. Yes, with fries. No, no salad. Just a big, sloppy heart attack on a bun, and some fries. But no pickle.

As I waited for my food, I did what most people do when they’re out eating alone: I played with my phone. I checked my emails, and even answered a few. I do PR for a punk rock band and the store they own, so I’m always hearing from someone or trying to get someone to hear me. Scott arrived with my burger, and I received a text just as I was about to put my phone down. It was my friend, Amy, wondering what I was up to. Just grabbing dinner, I replied.

Where?

Some place downtown.

Awe, you should have told me! I would have joined you.

It’s cool. I’m just gonna eat and go.

I looked around the restaurant, and spotted a waiter who bore a close resemblance to Nicolas Cage. I snickered to myself as I sent Amy another text: There’s a waiter here who looks like Nicolas Cage.

Looks like? Have you seen his last few movies? That waiter probably IS Nicolas Cage! (laughing emoji)

I shook my head as I cut my burger in half (see? I am a lady). As I took my first bite, I heard the hostess at the front yell, “Jones! Party of nine!”

Nine? Christ. I popped a few fries into my mouth, and heard someone at a table behind me talking louder than their inside voice needed to be. Something about not understanding something about someone…I don’t know. I didn’t want to eavesdrop; not really. But they were loud as hell and it just couldn’t be helped.

“I mean, I just don’t understand what you want from me!”

I turned slightly in my seat to see what looked like a date that had gone wrong. He was in a suit and tie, she was in a dark red very short dress. Her arms were folded. He stood up from the table and stormed off. I went back to eating my burger, and was thankful I was eating alone. After all, that could have been me.