The Shine Journal

Queuing at McDonalds

by

M. Wilkinson

The line at McDonalds moves and I shuffle three steps forward. The woman standing in front of me has a large, brown wart on her neck. I don’t want to look but it’s as if my eyeballs are attached to it by elastic, turn them away, and they snap back. It resembles one of those flying saucers in old films, flat, with a raised, crusty, grey centre. I want to flip the top up with my fingernail to see if there are miniature aliens at the controls. I shove my hands deep into my pockets. How do I know it really is a wart? What am I, a doctor?

"A cheese burger and double fries," says a young man at the head of the queue. I stare at him, a kid of about twenty, with earrings, greasy fair hair, and long sideburns, Tall and thin, with a receding chin, he’s wearing baggy shorts and no shirt, and there’s a galaxy of spots across his shoulders. I look back at the spaceship wart, perhaps that’s where it’s headed, Planet Pimple a place where no man has gone before.

Picking up his Styrofoam package he heads towards the door. His eyes slide momentarily to the outlined nipples of a woman in a tight, white tee shirt, who is sitting at a table with a friend.

The woman doesn’t notice, she is talking and taps long false nails on the red plastic table surface. "I soon told him where to go," she says. Her crimson lips curl into a satisfied smile.

The woman opposite her absently hikes up a fallen bra strap. "Coo I bet he was livid," she replies and gives the child at her side a fleeting look. "You finished, Saffron?"

Saffron nods, scrambles from her seat and leans against the table. Her pale eyes dart along the queue and come to rest on me. She stares, one sandaled foot resting on her other instep. I stare back. She has doughnut crumbs stuck on the orange-juice stain around her mouth. The front of her pale blue dress is soiled, her face is expressionless. Without warning, a pink tongue slides from between her lips and she pulls a face in my direction. Surprise blossoms in her eyes as I return the gesture. She pokes a forefinger up her nostril, explores, and wipes the results down the front of her dress. I concede defeat and turn away.

The woman in front of me in the queue gives her order in a conspiratorial voice and rests her arms on the high counter. Fat, bat wings wobble like a cockerel’s comb, and a faint whiff of body odour drifts my way. The wart, a setting sun, disappears under the collar of her shirt.

An old lady with white hair smiles and shuffles forward as I leave the queue. "Changed your mind, dear?"

I nod and head for the door.

Bio: MAUREEN WILKINSON is a British Author. Her interests range from travel to antiques. It’s when walking her German shepherd her mind travels its own strange paths.Some of her credits include short stories published in Flashme, Champagne Shivers, Literal Translations, Susurrus, and others. Northern Ireland Arts council has just published four of her flashes in a newly released anthology.

Motivation: An unaccustomed stop at McDonalds