Talk to Mike Michael Frissore on the Fictionville blog
We decided on a romantic dinner at Wendy's. A guy in a furry bowtie, clearly the manager, was berating the woman who took our orders. It was hard to figure whom to side with. She was even more annoying than he was and showed no respect to him whatever, even telling him to “take a chill pill.” That phrase alone made me hate her.
As the yelling back and forth continued, we sat down with our delicious meals. An instructional audio from DISH Network inexplicably played in the background. We didn't know if one of the workers decided to play it that night or if Wendy's and DISH Network were working together. Whatever the reason, it was upsetting. I come to Wendy's to hear the hits of the 80s and 90s.
Amy ate her chicken rather slowly and started sniffing around, smelling her ketchup, her fries, everything, until she grabbed my barbecue sauce and sniffed that.
“Ew,” she said. “That's it. That's the smell.”
“What?” I said.
“Your barbecue sauce, it smells like formaldehyde. It's disgusting.”
“Stop it,” I said. “You and your imaginary smells.”
“Well, you smell it.”
I've learned that I'd better taste or smell what Amy wants me to by now, because she will not stop asking. So I grabbed the barbecue sauce and sniffed it. It smelled fine to me. It certainly wasn't formaldehyde flavor. I put the sauce down and continued eating.
“Ew,” she said. “How can you still eat that?”
“I like my chicken nuggets with barbecue sauce,” I said. “It smells fine to me.”
At this point Amy was done eating. She couldn't enjoy her food while I sat there dipping my chicken in formaldehyde. She offered me her ranch sauce, but I declined.
“It smells like you're dissecting frogs,” she said.
“Yummy,” I replied. While she watched me, I ate every nugget, dipping, rubbing each of them in the sauce and practically turning the container inside out. Amy was completely grossed out and excused herself to the restroom.
All the way home she kept talking about how gross the barbecue sauce smelled. I really thought she was going to have post-traumatic stress disorder the way she was carrying on. We got home just in time to watch American Idol and everything was fine, except Amy had to use the bathroom again.
“Didn't you just go?” I asked.
“I had a lot to drink,” she replied.
As she went upstairs I went into my pocket for the packet of barbecue sauce I grabbed at Wendy's while she was in the restroom. I dipped my fingers in and rubbed the sauce all over my face, being sure to apply a good deal of it around my lips. As tasty as I thought this stuff was, it's not a very pleasant thing to have caked on your face. But anything for a joke.
When I heard her start to come downstairs I went into the kitchen, pretending to be preparing something.
“What are you doing, sweetie?” she hollered.
“Just making tea, baby doll” I said, with my back to the kitchen entrance. “Come here and kiss me.”
I could hear her scurry along into the kitchen with that invitation. She started rubbing my back as I fiddled with nothing in particular.
“Do you want Earl Gray?” I said.
“Just kiss me, you fool,” she replied. And I turned around and she freaked out.
“Kiss me,” I said.
“What the hell is that?!?” she exclaimed.
“Formaldehyde,” I said. “It's how I stay preserved.”
‘You're a jerk,” she said, running away from me. I chased her as she implored me to stop, which made me do so. I'm such a sucker. I washed my face and she told me she wouldn't kiss me for at least a week.