My Dearly Beloved and I are at some silly lunch place called Zoup! We stand in line, moving with bovine-like predictability along with other prospective Zoup! consumers. Eventually, it's our turn. We verbalize our order.
"Name, please?" asks the kid in the hat.
My Dearly Beloved gives his first name. Then we go to the drink machine and take a seat at the window counter.
The kid in the hat calls out "Brenda," who dutifully retrieves her bowl of seafood bisque and chunk of sourdough.
"Jason?" calls the kid in the hat.
"Remind me next time to give the name 'Dildo,' just so he has to yell it across the room," says my Dearly Beloved. I laugh at his quip, then we both stare out at the Cleveland January gray as we sip our ice tea and wait.
"I'm hungry," he says.
"Me too," I say.
The kid in the hat finally says my Dearly Beloved's name.
"You're up, Dildo," I say.