You Can't Put the Spoon Through It

A new frozen yogurt shop had just opened up but she hadn't noticed it until she was leaving her favorite sushi restaurant next door.  After teaching tenth graders all week, she'd look forward to Friday night: the only day of the week when she'd get to wear something besides slacks, drink a little too much, and most importantly, eat food prepared by other people.  Her friends suggested to her that she make a bit more effort to "put herself out there" on the weekends, but she was quick to tire on a Friday, and the only thing worse than making no plans that involved drinks with an attractive man was when she'd actually make an effort--including liquid eyeliner--to go out, only to discover that she could not, for whatever reason, get laid, and had not had any contact with a male body since her college boyfriend had decided that he needed to be alone in order to figure out who he was.

Maybe wearing nothing but slacks and orthopedic Sweedish clogs all week had psychological ramifications.  Sure, the slacks made her ass appear wider than it really was and the clogs had this elfish, slightly-upturned toebox, but it was important to be physically comfortable when you were on your feet all day.  And she'd read an article on the internet about teachers developing back problems as early as age thiry-five, and she wasn't about to develop a full quasimodo stoop--it was bad enough that her upper back was already beginning to reveal that she spend most nights hunched over essays.

She'd had a particularly exhausting week, so she drove to the sushi bar for an early dinner.  Behind the sushi bar was a college-aged white guy with black Buddy Holly glasses.  She was the only person at the bar.

"Can I get the Quail egg sashimi?" she asked.
"You want it just plain?  Or I can do it with the rice?  Or wait, I know!"  He grinned devilishly.  "I can do a Quail egg shot for you.  It's Midori and sake with a poached egg."
This goopy combination sounded disgusting to her, but he was speaking in a hushed, eager voice.
"How can I turn that down?"
The shot looked like a sunset, but as she popped the yoke in her teeth, she was reminded of raw cake batter ingredients.
"How'd you like it?" he asked.
"It was okay."
After that, he ignored her.  She worked her way through two rolls and large beer, paid the beautiful waitress with the straight teeth, and this was when she saw, upon exiting, the new yogurt place.

The was no one behind the counter, which was lined with bins of toppings such as gummy bears and crumbled candy bars. The soft serve machines whirred: an unsupervised free-for-all of treasures.  There was one quiet family, mom, dad, baby, in a booth, and a group of teenaged girls with long hair and Catholic school uniforms.  It was self serve and there were sample cups.  She tried the no-sugar-added vanilla, the peanut butter, chocolate, country vanilla, cookies and cream, red velvet. Her mouth on that plastic spoon, filling with cold, creamy sugar, then empty and sticky until the next bite.  Finally, she grabbed an extra-large cup and layered in every flavor.  She worked her way across the parlor and pulled each heavy lever with the deliberation of a trucker shifting gears.  For toppings, she chose crumbled Oreos and Reese's pieces, and plunked her cup onto the scale.  It was then that a young man in a white chef coat emerged from the stockroom.  He had a bald head.
"Is that all for you?" he asked in a kind voice.
"Yep," she said.  His voice had been careful, as if he were trying not to upset her.  "That's all for me. Do you guys have lids?"  She was looking forward to eating on the couch.
"Right here," he said.  "But you can't put the spoon through it."  He picked up a dome-shaped clear lid that had a round, flat top.  It did, in fact, look like you were supposed to put a spoon through it.
"That's odd," she said.  She felt herself smile as he handed her the lid.  She flipped it over in her hands.  Then she took a spoon and pantomimed an attempt to jam it through the lid.  She gave a theatrical cry of anguish and soon she had him laughing--a real laugh, she could tell by its deep pitch, and quite a nice set of strong white teeth.  She couldn't help laughing, herself.  The group of girls threw away their cups and spoons and the family was leaving, too.

He read the scale with an attentiveness more appropriate for a scientific laboratory than a Bosco's yogurt.
"That'll be three fifty."
She placed four one dollar bills on the counter and felt an energy drain from her body.  Then she was crying, only a little bit. He pretended not to notice and finished ringing her up.  She dumped the change into the tip can without bothering to wipe her face.
"Would you like to sit with me?" she said.  She looked at her feet.
"Okay."
The sun had gone down.  She chose the booth farthest from the door and slid in.  She patted the spot next to her and he sat.
"Want a bite?" she asked, prying the lid off.
"Okay," he said.  He surveyed the contents of the cup.  "What flavor is this?"
"All of them," she said.  There was that deep laugh again.  And then they were both laughing between bites, taking turns with the spoon.  She found out that he used to be a graduate student in Chemistry but had since dropped out, and he found out that she taught high school, but mostly their mouths were full of yogurt and there was a lot of sighing, mm's, and staring ahead.  Then he was feeding her--he'd let her swallow and wait for her to nod before he prepared another bite.  On the third bite, she put her fingers around his wrist and soon they were kissing, mouths and hands sticky with sugar, and then was moving over her, her thighs sticking to the booth pad as she slid onto her back.  He had to leave her for a minute to lock the door, and she lay there starting up at the shabby ceiling but only for a moment before he climbed back into the booth and she wrapped her legs around him, which took a moment of awkward repositioning.  Then there was just the industrial whir of the yogurt machines, and breathing, grabbing, pressing, skin on skin on sticky booth.

She made him stop early and they sat up.  He was breathing heavily and slumping against the back of the booth.  She could feel a sticky ring of sugar around her mouth, which suddenly felt empty and acutely parched.  She reached for the yogurt cup, which was still half full, and brought a spoonful to her lips.  It had become a soupy and brown syrup, but she ate it anyway and even tipped the cup to get the last sip.  She thought about thanking him, but then decided that would sound desperate.  Instead, she said nothing as he did up his pants and got up to unlock the door and busy himself behind the counter.

She chose some Country Vanilla for the road and grabbed a fresh lid without bothered to weigh it.
"You have a good night," she told him, her elbow against the door.
"You too," he said.  He had a look of amusement and disbelief.

In the car, she remembered with a little twinge of excitement that a recorded episode of her favorite show was waiting for her at home.  With any luck, she could have her second helping on the couch while watching it and then fall asleep as quickly and as hard as it is possible for a person to do so.