I'm Thinking of Ending Things(32)

“It’s not too bad.”

Outside the car, it’s cold, windy. The snow is getting heavier now for sure. More swirling than falling. It’s not staying on the ground yet. It will once it gets going. Hopefully I’ll be in bed by then, with some Advil. If my headache is gone tomorrow, I’ll spend the morning shoveling. The cold feels nice on my head.

“Has the feel of a big storm,” says Jake. “Wind is freezing.”

Looking into the brightly lit Dairy Queen makes me feel nauseated. Of course the Dairy Queen is empty. You have to wonder why it’s even open tonight. I noticed the hours on the door and calculated that they’re closing in eight minutes. There is no bell chime or the expected overhead Muzak upon entry. The empty tables are clean, no balled napkins or empty cups or crumbs. The store is prepped for close. The dull, metallic drone from the machines and freezers creates a cumulative noise. It reminds me of a dial tone. There’s a scent in here, too, almost chemical. We wait, looking up at the glowing menu.

He’s reading the menu. I can tell by his eyes, the way he’s touching his chin. “I’m sure they’ll have something nondairy,” he says again.

Jake’s already holding a long, red plastic spoon he grabbed from a bin. It’s kind of irritating how he grabbed a spoon for himself and we don’t even know if there’s anything I can eat. We still have plenty of driving ahead of us. A longer trip if the storm gets worse. Maybe we should have stayed the night at the farm. But I just wasn’t totally comfortable. I don’t know. Jake yawns.

“Are you good, or do you want me to drive the rest of the way home?” I ask.

“No, no, I’m fine. I had less to drink than you did.”

“We had the exact same.”

“But it affects you way more. Subjectivity and all that.” He yawns again, wider, this time bringing his hand up to his mouth. “Yeah, see, they have different flavors of lemonade. And it’s iced, dairy-free lemonade,” he says. “You’ll like that.”

“Like. Sure,” I say. “I’ll have one.”

Two employees have emerged from a back room. They look displeased that we’ve disturbed them. Youngish, teenagers, both of them. They have different shapes, different body types, but in all other facets are identical. They have the same dyed hair, the same tight black pants, the same brown boots. Both would so clearly rather be anywhere else, and I don’t blame them.

“We’ll have a small lemonade. And actually make it two lemonades. How big is your medium?” Jake asks.

One of the girls grabs a largish-looking paper cup and holds it up. “Medium,” she says, flatly. The other girl turns away and giggles.

“That’s fine,” he says. “One small, one medium.”

“The small should be a strawberry lemonade, please, not just the normal lemonade,” I say to the girl. “There’s no dairy in that, right?”

The girl asks the other girl: “There’s no ice cream in the lemonade, is there?” She is still giggling and has a hard time answering. Now the first girl is laughing, too. They’re exchanging glances.

“How bad is the allergy?” asks the second girl.

“It won’t kill me. I just wouldn’t feel well.”

It’s almost like they recognize us, and it’s weird for them, the same way it would be if a friend of one of their parents came in, or one of their teachers showed up unexpectedly and they had to serve them. That’s how they’re reacting. I look at Jake. He seems oblivious. The first girl looks at him, then whispers something to the second girl. They both laugh again.

A third girl now. She comes from the back. She must have been listening, because without a word she starts to make my lemonade. The other girls don’t say anything to her, either, or acknowledge her presence.

The third girl looks up from the machine. “Sorry for the smell,” she says. “They’re doing some varnishing in the back.”

Varnishing? In a Dairy Queen? “No worries,” I say.

It’s a sudden feeling, but unmistakable. I know this girl. I recognize her but have no idea from where or when. Her face, her hair. Her build. I know her.

She doesn’t say anything else. She just sets to work making the lemonade. Or she preps the cups, anyway. She pushes some buttons, turns some knobs. She stands in front of the machine like she’s waiting in line at a store. As the machine does the work, the girl holds her hand on one of the empty cups underneath, waiting for the machine to dispense the fluid.

This has never happened to me before, recognizing a perfect stranger. I can’t say anything to Jake. It would sound too weird. It is weird.

She’s skinny and frail, this girl. Something’s not right. I feel bad for her. Her dark hair is long and plain and falls over her back and much of her face. Her hands are small. She’s not wearing any jewelry, no necklace or rings. She appears fragile and anxious. She has a rash. A bad one.

Starting an inch or so above her wrist are raised bumps, just large enough for me to see. They get worse, redder, up her elbow. I’m looking intensely at her rash. It looks sore and itchy. It’s dry, too, and flaky. She must be scratching it. When I look up she’s looking at me. Staring. I feel my face blush, divert my eyes to the floor.

Jake isn’t paying any attention. I sense that she’s still looking at me, though. I hear one of the girls snicker. The skinny one lids the cup and puts it down on the counter. Her hand moves up and her fingers start to scratch her rash. Not aggressively. I don’t want to keep looking. She’s sort of picking at the bumps, almost trying to dig them out of her arm. There’s a tremble, now, in her hand.