At the K & N

Maybe seventeen, the carhop, her pregnant belly preceding her, waddled up to the driver’s side door.

She carried two root beer floats and an order of fries on a tray that she hooked onto a window rolled halfway down. She brushed away droplets of sweat dotting her forehead.

I was pregnant, too. Barely older than the carhop. The float was a craving. The fries an after thought.

We made eye contact, the waitress and I. My place in the passenger seat somehow granting me special dispensation.

I felt superior, there with my husband. I made judgements over greasy fries and root beer soaked ice cream.

Every now and again I wonder how her story played out. A right turn here. A detour there. She’d be my age, or thereabouts.

I hope her life’s been good.