Dear Dirty America

DDA

American Romance

June 13
23:54 2012

It’s really very simple. A formula for love. Exemplified by an order of french fries from McDonald’s. A large order. Split between a man and wife, both married to the other for over thirty years. Three kids. Grown and gone. The woman short and pudgy with proper reading spectacles. Her husband a soft, tanned, round face topped with a flourish of thick white hair that reminds more than one person of a dense cloud.

Our relationship works perfectly, says the wife. “He eats all the crispy fries, and throws out the soggy ones. Well, I like the soggy ones. So it works out. It’s a match made for eternity.”

“Yep,” the husband agrees, but he doesn’t seem all that enthused. Outside, shiny cars inch their way through the drive-thru lane, and their owners pick up their own orders of burgers and fries and shakes and apple pies. That’s where the husband’s gaze seems to be.

Somewhere overhead an old Elvis tune plays. Hidden speakers, but the crooning sound of his voice is apparent. The nostalgia lasts longer than the fries. And then, in some fleeting truth of the American spirit, the endurable old couple is ready for the next thing.

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