“Every time you come around, you know I can't say no"

Metal spatulas clap against the flat stainless-steel surface. Forks clank against the red plastic plates. Children cry. Hushed conversations at individual tables carry across the open dining room like inaudible howls. I sit among them. My overly-sweetened iced carbonated beverage offers momentary relief. Looking up from the cushioned bench to which my naked thighs are seemingly glued, I see the line of people gathering their ingredients. It offers me no comfort as they pile supposed fresh proteins and vegetables on their plates. The end of the course leads them to a public wok where their food is cooked and served steaming. I know, I went through it. Now, before me, is the remains of a half-eaten tasteless meal.

An older woman dressed in a vibrant blue top with colorful flowers catches my eye. She literally waddles from behind the wood panel divider. Her hair is shades of silver in a Jamie Lee Curtis pixie cut. She has oversized circular prescription glasses, and her makeup is caked on. As she comes closer, I see her excessive fanny pack of a tummy preceding the rest of her unbalanced pear frame.

Bile climbs up my throat. I look over and a portly man in a mint green polo shirt has my attention. Despite the essential number of “X”s that are surely listed on the tag of the shirt, I am amazed at the back fat that is still outlined on his figure.

I look down at my meal and the last bites of the equally bland green tea ice cream. Something is too much. I remind myself I’m here for a special occasion. It doesn’t help.

In the car, after I’ve paid the bill and excused myself, I lie on the front passenger seat. I am alone. He is still indulging inside.

My arms are stretched and crossed behind my head creating a pillow. My feet move side to side keeping beat with the eclectic mix of music genres quietly playing on the public radio station. All four windows are down and gentle breezes from the otherwise muggy air set my mind at ease. I stare up at the at the lighted “Smoke Village” and dark “Hallmark Gold Crown” signs until they look misspelled. My mind retraces the sights of the day, which began almost twelve hours ago. It seems like eons and only minutes have passed at the same time.

We had walked into a nick-knack store, winding our way to the hostess stand of a restaurant known for its southern hospitality. A bright yellow and white checkered maxi sundress with tie straps and a mesh material bust catch my eye. I make note to check it out before we leave.

We are seated, order, and our food arrives. I dig into the glorious plate of three large buttermilk pancakes with a warm peach topping, whipped butter, whipped cream, and maple syrup, and cut my first bite. Chewing, I can’t help but take note of my surroundings, and the people. At the table beside us is another couple. She is in my line of sight. I notice she’s approximately my age. Her turquoise blue hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail. She wears a navy-blue t-shirt. Across her chest is the message “Together, people are better than medicine.” She dons jean shorts and a thigh tattoo peaks out from the hem. It’s orange, which from my point of view looks like a bruise. As my line-of-sight travels upward, I notice she has not one or two, but three chins. I avert my eyes.

Walking by is a woman who is clearly fit. She wears a sleeveless black flowing top and jean shorts. Her head is held high, her back is straight, and her figure is toned. In front of her is a child that walks similarly, but her frame is layers of baby fat morphing into childhood obesity.

Beside them both is a man from another group walking to his table. I stare at him in awe. He walks as if leaning backward comes naturally to him. His oversized white t-shirt and forest green shorts are worn, old, and slightly dirty. But it’s his legs that capture my attention. They’re uncomfortably thick and lead to his feet without ankles.

His lack of ankles has become the topic of our conversation as I cut into another slice of pancake. I imagine it must be painful, yet I can’t look away. I try to turn my attention back toward my personal piece of indulgence and what’s left of my once magnificent pancake breakfast, but the treat has lost its oomph. My happiness is dulled.

I am haunted.

“I think my Cracker Barrel phase is over,” I say to my breakfast companion, still staring at the man without ankles as he walks past me toward the door.

My other half laughs.

As we leave, I stop at look at the maxi dress. Pulling it toward me, I saw the price tag and reason it’s sensible. Then, the size: 2XL.

The “Smoke Village” light has been turned off. The sky is dark. I raise the seat and stare blissfully at nothing. I remind myself today is only one day and not every day. Today is the exception. It’s my splurge day and I am not them. I can’t shake what I’ve seen, but my life doesn’t have to be theirs. Besides, with a few hours of cheat day remaining, there’s nothing a pint of Häagen-Dazs won’t fix.