Page 91 of Cackle

Jill and Dan dig in, ripping at the pretzel and dunking it in the cheese. Double-dipping. Pascal stares into the depths of his whiskey. Mine’s already gone.

When the waiter comes back to take our order, I ask for another whiskey.

“What will you have to eat?” the waiter asks.

“Oh,” I say, “I guess the mixed green salad. With chicken.”

“A salad?” Dan asks.

“Is that not acceptable to you?” I ask, because the whiskey’s in me now, lowering my tolerance for bullshit.

Dan raises an eyebrow. Jill laughs a nervous, high-pitched giggle. Pascal pulls a classic Pascal move and does absolutely nothing.

The waiter flees. Dan gnaws on a chunk of pretzel and says, “One of the things I liked about Jill was, on our first date, she ordered a cheeseburger. I like a girl who eats.”

“I definitely eat!” Jill says. “I can eat.”

She takes another piece of pretzel and drenches it in cheese, then pops it into her mouth as if she’s trying to prove a point.

“So,” I say, desperate for a change of subject, “how long have you two been married?”

“Three years,” Jill says. “But we still act like newlyweds.”

Something happens under the table and they both giggle and squirm. I throw up a little in my mouth. I swallow it back down, chase it with whiskey.

I shouldn’t have allowed myself to hope that this night would go any better than the way it’s going. That was my mistake.

I see the picture. Sam. Shannon. Her on his lap. Their faces so close. Their cheeks red and slick with that happy glow.

“How did you meet?” I ask them.

“We met in college,” Jill says. “He played football and I was a cheerleader.”

“I was dating her friend at the time,” he says. “Then I traded that one in for a better model.”

I gasp midsip, spitting a little whiskey back into my glass. I guess I’m the only one offended by this comment. Jill seems tickled by it.

“Excuse me,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”

“Are you going to the bathroom? I’ll go with you,” Jill says.

“No,” I say. “I . . . I forgot something. I have to make a call.”

I book it to the bathroom and lock myself inside a stall. I press my forehead against the door, let it hold my weight.

“Don’t cry,” I whisper to myself. “Don’t cry.”

I pull my head back and notice the graffiti on the stall door. I put the toilet seat down and sit on top of it with my head in my hands. I read the graffiti to distract myself.

RL NJ

Jess & Rocky 4everrrr

I love Dick!!!

It’s okay, Annie.

I stop. Read it again.