At Bobo's Drive-In

At Bobo’s Drive-In, a girl with strawberry orange hair and a scruffy boy sit at the counter. He looks at her and sings country love songs along with the radio. She wears heavy eyeliner. He keeps his wallet on a chain. She tells him stories about things she has had in her hair. That one time at school when someone spilled mashed potatoes and gravy on her head. An unfortunate incident with a bird. He laughs, calls her gross and kisses her. She adores him, this much is clear even from the corner booth where I sit, trying not to smile too broadly. They are so in love. And for several minutes, Bobo’s is the best place in the world. Then I bite into my cheeseburger and discover they automatically load ‘em up with mayo, mustard, three pickles and a slice of tomato. Blast. Stupid Bobo’s.