The rhododendrons surrounding the 83rd local branch of the East Boston Taco Bell were perfectly symmetrical. The caterpillars nibbled on them with ease. The drive thru's lights were idyllic and restful. Thin microwavable taco wrappers floated lightly in the breeze. Something was horridly wrong. Rachel was eating a bean burrito. She was in love (not with the burrito).
Her hypothalamus was secreting precisely the amount of enzymes necessary for loving someone. No more. No less. Her endocrine system was positively glowing. A coquettish little grin was spreading across her face with every bite. Mark would be here soon. Things would be better. She would tell him how sorry she was for embarrassing him.
He would let her back into his life again.
Rachel gulped the last piece of burrito down as she saw his car pull into the parking lot. She knew he hated watching her eat. He was a perfectionist, everything,everyone in their right place.
At that exact moment the 3.7 ounces of soy fat, bean curry, and hydrogenised flour swimming down Rachel's gastrointestinal tract ran into a bit of a hitch. This was because inspector 117 of the Massachusetts Taco Bell curried bean plant was in love
(so his hypothalamus told him) with an innocent young prostitute named Lucy. Every Wednesday evening he drove 7 hours north to Dims dale, New Hampshire to see her. They had such a lovely time that every Thursday Inspector 117 had one of his subordinates cover for him, a dingy disdainful little man named Howard.
Howard hated Taco Bell, and in fact (for genetic reasons) loved no one not even himself. So each Thursday he passed the time by taking stiff shots of Scottish ale and gin, and spitting them at people on the assembly line. Three Thursday's ago however, this backfired. The labor union formed a committee, a walkout, and an organized beat down.
Howard was hospitalized.
Inspector 117 drove frantic through the night to make it back to the plant in time, but when he arrived it was already too late.
Now his mistake was headed for Rachel's gall bladder. Mark was opening his car door. Rachel was cringing. Her insides seemed to be lurching with tiny elephants. The birds outside had stopped their chirping. The wind had ceased to blow. Rachel grimaced as she fought it back with all the strength she could muster.
She pictured the 3.5 children, the house in downtown Boston, the trips to upstate New York in the springtime, the perfectly weighted aluminum siding, the achingly well-mown lawn. Everything hinged on this moment. She rocked over to one side as she saw him smiling. The other customers seemed eerily quiet.
Mark strolled through the glass doors of the 83rd local branch of the East Boston Taco Bell completely unprepared for the sound that awaited him.
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