“Alright,” I eventually settle on, which makes me wince internally.
“Any preference?” Leo asks, not seeming to notice my psychological case of the hiccups.
I shrug my shoulders, not trusting whatever awkward words might come out of my face if I try to speak again.
“Okay, then,” Leo says as we join the queue for the sales counter, sending me a sly smile I’m not sure what to make of, “I know the perfect place.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
JACK
I am in the fifth circle of hell.
I hate this. I hate this whole thing. I hate Leo for being alive and ruining my life with his biceps and his stupid smiley face and his continued existence. I hate Mr McDonald for being born and going on to open up a chain of horrific establishments such as the one I am currently sitting in.
Poking at the plastic table, I demand, "Why is everything sticky?"
There should be a sign hanging over the doors: “Welcome to McDonald’s, where everything is sticky and plastic and terrible.”
"It just is," Leo says. He’s eating chips. Like afiend. I hope he chokes on them.
"It just is," I parrot back at him mockingly. "You said this place was new."
"Itisnew. Only opened last week," Leo says, shrugging, apparently unconcerned by my growing ire. He will pay for his naivety. He will know a rage that he has thus forth only experienced in his darkest of nightmares.
"A week!" I say in disbelief. Or maybe I shriek it. I'm not sure; the genuine horror I feel is distracting.
People look over at us from various multicoloured plastic tables. I sneer at them. Because I have to. Otherwise, I'll start throwing things instead, because that’s apparently what’s done in this place.
I see a twenty-something-year-old man throw half a burger at his friend. His friend chucks a plastic children's toy back at him.
There is so much brightly coloured plastic in here. McDonald’s somehow manages to be decorated like the food hall of a clown school and yet remains one of the dingiest places I have ever deigned to enter.
"I have salt under my fingernails," I say, scowling at my partner, infuriated. "Why is there salt under my fingernails, Leo? I haven't touched anything with salt on it."
Leo looks outrageously pleased with himself. I kick him under the table. To restore balance to the universe. No one should be happy in this hellhole; it's unnatural, and I do not accept it.
I move my legs out of the way before Leo can kick back. Leo glares mutinously at me. I ignore it.
"Okay, so I change my question," I say, attempting to remain calm this time. "Howis everything sticky? A week isn't enough time to accumulate this much stickiness."
Leo is too busy rubbing at his leg and whinging to pay attention to my question, so I kick him again.
"Jesus Christ," Leo barks, shooting me another glare. "Stop kicking me!"
"You will answer for this!" I growl back, gesturing widely with my arms at the “restaurant” we're sitting in.
"It's McDonald’s," Leo says, like he’s speaking to a particularly stupid child. "It's supposed to be sticky."
I narrow my eyes at him, suspicious. "Is that some kind of civilian thing I don't know about?"
Leo blows out an annoyed breath.
"Yes," he responds dryly. "It's a civilian thing."
I decide not to embarrass myself by asking any follow-up questions about the restaurant’s flagrant lack of cleanliness protocols. There are some things that are better left alone.
Leo stops chewing his cold chips and swallows. Those blue ice chips of eyes of his are fixed on my face.
