We are sitting at a wet table, speed-eating a portion of fries at the In-N-Out joint by our house. It is our Friday tradition and its the only time a week when we eat junk food, even though these heavenly hamburgers can’t possibly be associated with that. The table is wet because in my infinite excitement I managed to send my water flying with a wave of my hand. I know. Water in a hamburger place. Got to you keep your health-conscious priorities.
Our hands touch over fries. We sort of want to fight who gets the last one but sort of don’t want to either.
“You know, there’s something magical about hands, holding hands especially,” I say and start on the burger. “It almost like sex. The exchange of energies.”
When you take a bite of the In-and-Out burger, there’s a good chance that the pink gooey sauce that is a love child of a tomato and dressing will drip all over your hands and table. You can’t let it go to waste. Even if it lands on the hamburger wrapper or on your jeans, you have to lick it off. Otherwise you are committing a crime against love.
My husband’s burger (no cheese) is almost gone. He says,
“Next time you get cold at night, I’ll suggest we hold hands.”