We will meet at the equidistant Burger King. Worried that you will arrive too early, you will arrive 7 minutes late. I will arrive 13 minutes late without reason.

We will go in for the awkward hug-shake, failing. The procedure of motion will turn into an elaborate handshake / one-armed pat-on-back combo like we see in so many cheesy comedies involving cool black people and dorky white people. But we will both be dorky white people. Or black people. I'm flexible.

You will order the Whopper with extra onion and no tomato. You can order something, too, I guess, if you want. And I will stand very close to your back-right side. Not your back-left side. That would be rude.

I will pick the booth immediately next to the loud family, although most of the rest of the restaurant will be open. One of the multitudes of children will be pressing their face against the seat behind me, looking around my shoulder at you. You will smile and wave to be friendly. The child will continue staring, unblinking.

I will pretend to roll up my sleeves because I will have on a t-shirt or no shirt. I will very slowly unwrap the Whopper. I will laugh out loud to a joke I remembered from a week ago. I will not explain myself.

You will clear your throat to attract my attention. But it will be too late. I will have already taken that first of seven savory bites into that immaculate burger. I will be splashing through the purple fields of Flavor Country and there will be nothing you can do to stop me. I will dive to and fro through meaty mountains. I will fly through miles of lettuce Nirvana. It will smell like the spirit of... something.

From the second the burger releases me from it's heavenly mouth-cluches, I will begin looking at you. It will last 13 seconds. Just as you open your mouth to speak, so shall I, with an audible inward breath. We will both pause. We will forget what we were going to say.

Bite 2/7:

Such is the life a fast food burger, no further pleasure can be derived. My mouth will be saturated with salt and fat and I will henceforth have diabetes. I will whimper silently in contemplation for the loss of this simple delight.

"Are you ok?" you will ask.

"What?" I will ask.

"Are you ok?" you will ask.

"Yes," I will say.

Bite 3/7:

Nothing to write mother about.

"I like your nose ring," I will say, whether or not you actually have a nose ring.

"Thank you," you will say, if you have a nose ring.

"Thank... you?" you will say, if you do not have a nose ring.

Bite 4/7:

It will become clear to me by this point that you did not ask to withhold tomato, as tomato juice will flood my tender pallet. I trusted you.

Bit 5/7:

"Sooooooo, do you like... hair -er... something?" you will ask.

"H'K'wut?" I will ask, bits of bun falling from my mouth.

"Ya know, I mean,... like... head hair -er... armpit hair... -er something?" you will elaborate.

I will masticate a moment.

"It's cool," I will say. After swallowing. Because talking while eating is rude.

Bit3 6/7:

The burger will get it's second wind and become delicious again. It will feel like Christmas in my mouth. Santa will be sledding up and down my tongue baring gifts of saucy goodness. Then the world of my moth will go dark once again.

Butt 7/7:

"How is your food?" I will ask.

"It's alright," you will say.

or

"I didn't order anything," you will say.

"How is your food?" you will ask.

I will think for a moment.

"Adequate," I will say.

You will seem satisfied.

Bite 8/7:

I have horribly misjudged my bite-to-burger ratio. I am ashamed. I will write an apology to my family the next day. I will hope they forgive me once again.

"Well, uh, what do you like?" you will ask.

"Not tomato," I will say. My eyes will be wide so as to emphasize my point.

"Yeah, but what do you do for fun?" you will ask.

"Paintball, jazz hands, brooding, the standard. What about you?" I will say and then ask in this particular order.

"Oh, well, I like shopping, video games, tv shows, ancient history, and perfecting the art of tapas," you will say, whether or not any of this will be true.

"That is a fascinating array of nouns," I will say.

We will be silent for 9 seconds.

"Soooooooooooooooo, would you like to see a movie or something?" you will ask.

"I'd better not. It's flannel day and I have to turn over my shirts, pants, and socks," I will say.

"Oh... OK. Maybe another time then," you will say.

"Mm, yes, perhaps," I will say.

We will get up and you will initiate another of what would hope to become an awkward shake-hug. Suddenly, a look will roll across my face as if I remembered a terror from childhood. You will pause. You will decide against progressing further. I will snap out of it. We will walk to our respective vehicles, unspeaking. As it turns out, we will have parked right next to each other. The lot will be otherwise empty.

"Bye," you will say.

"Slater," I will say. It will be the accidental shortening of "see you later." I will be proud of my new send-off. I will write about this at length on my livejournal account.

Over the next 6 weeks, you will think of me constantly. You will wonder things like where I came from, what I did, why I walked with a limp, why my car was bright orange even the windows, and so forth. You will think to yourself that I'm pretty cute despite having such unkempt muttonchops. You will misremember talking about tattoos and wonder if I had any. I don't. I may by the time all this takes place. But I do not now. Maybe. I'm flexible. You will be especially concerned with how we came together despite not discussing offline communications methods.

This will be an approximate interpretation of the Whopper I will eat including tomato.

^{How COULD you?}