Midnight Lunch: An Erotic Story about Microwave Omelets

by Robin Watergrove

  The beautiful girl came in around 2 am last time. I’m biding my time, counting the minutes I need to pass before I can start watching the door. My eyes are on the clock when she comes in.

  I see her, forget the time with my relief, and look up at the clock again. 11:23 pm.

  Whatever the opposite of a ‘my heart stopped’ is, that’s what it feels like. The inside of me pops larger than my skin for a second. I don't know if I truly wasn’t expecting her to show up again, or if I’m flimsy and so easily tied to beautiful, new things.

  I can’t look at her while I’m losing my cool. By the time I get my eyes off the counter, she’s looking at the packaged hardboiled eggs in the refrigerators. She stays longer this time and I spend every second trying to think of something to say to her.

  I slip between tongue-tied with attraction and distracted by the sight of her. She has on a tight jacket today. Her arms are thinner than I thought, but her hips are just as round as my lust-swamped mind imagined. The zipper is pulled down to her navel, so the edges of the jacket flare around her breasts. When she walks up the chip aisle, I can see her nipples through her shirt.

  She’s not wearing a bra. I feel the first real lick of arousal race through me. It’s dangerously strong. Oh my god, her breasts look that good with no bra? How can that be? I stare at her chest. They’re so full, stretching delicious tension lines into her shirt at their fullest.

  Her nipples are big and pointed slightly away from each other. My body tears from interested to ravenously horny. She’s walking toward me and I still haven’t thought of anything to say. I’m thinking about jumping the counter and meeting her halfway, my hands scooping inside her jacket, under the curve of her breasts, so I can run my thumbs over both nipples when I kiss her.

  My mind rolls over in its haze. I have to say something. But even with my mouth closed, I imagine the way my eyes follow her around the store is probably making the point for me.

  She sets a pack of Juicyfruit on the counter.

  I say, “How’s your night going?”

  She looks up at me, “Pretty good. You?”

  I shrug, like now I’m cool to the touch, “Dunno. It’s just getting started.”

  She nods.

  My mind is reeling itself back together. I come up with something better, “You working the night shift too?”

  She says, “No. How much for the gum?”

  “Ninety-nine cents.”

  She puts a dollar bill on the counter and walks away. The door swings shut behind her and I see my face in the glass, apologizing.

  Is that a hard no? Or a soft no? Is that ‘don’t talk to me’ or ‘I hate small talk’? I brood myself into a bad mood and scowl at people through the doors.

  —————

  I promise myself to leave her alone. She no-shows the next day and I think, one more try. Last time. If she comes around again, I’ll just try one more time and then I’ll let it go.

  She comes in just before 2 am. I catch her eye and nod. She smiles back. It’s small and polite but if I’m only giving myself one more chance, it’s enough. I walk out from behind the counter and scoop up a half-full box of chip bags from the floor. Time to stock the shelves.

  I kneel in front of the chips and start tucking loud, crinkly bags into the back of each row. I feel her wandering around. I’m positive she’s watching me, but that could just be my own hyper-awareness clouding my senses.

  She turns down my aisle and sidesteps along, facing the candy bars. I can sense her behind me like static electricity. Lust says, turn around and find out how good she smells, but my mind, where I take myself and my limits seriously, says, you have one chance. Don’t fuck it up. I let her pass, then glance at her back as she walks away.

  My eyes return to the chip bags just as she says, “I love your hair,” without turning around.

  I look up and she looks back. I hold her eyes because the only time you can really hold someone’s gaze is the pause before you speak. I say, “Thanks.” She smiles and disappears around the end cap.

  I say, “I like yours too.”

  She leans back into view, “Thanks!”

  I stand up, trying to look casual, hoping I don’t spook her, “How do you keep it so bright but still so soft?” Most girls with bleached hair have brittle tips. Hers looks like pulled cotton.

  She laughs, “Honey and egg yolks.”

  I smile and bite my lip, bolder now, “I’ll give you a discount.”

  She takes a step closer. Her head tips just enough to let me know she knows. We’re flirting. More accurately, I’m flirting and she’s letting me. She crosses her arms, which lifts her breasts. I hold her eyes, unblinking.

  “On what? Little squeeze jars of honey? I’d go through one a day.”

  “I’ll sell you a case.”

  She just nods at me with her eyebrows raised. I drop the cloak of flirting and ask an honest question. One chance to show her I’m serious, to find out her name. I say, “So if you’re not working, what are you doing up so late?”

  Her eyes are so dark I can’t tell if she’s offended or interested. She looks back at me like she isn’t going to respond, then says, “I am working. I’m a Minor Decoy.”

  I blink. I know the phrase, but it’s so far from what I was expecting her to say that I can’t remember what it means. Minor decoy, minor decoy… My mind snaps into focus. They work for the cops. Kids under 21 who try to buy alcohol with fake IDs to bust lazy cashiers and shady bars.

  She shrugs without a word.

  I say, “Really?”

  She says, “No.”

  We stare at each other. I don’t understand this person. Lack of comprehension floods me. Not confusion, because I’m not trying to make sense of it, just blank whiteness with no meaning. I don’t understand her at all. I say, “So are you actually under 21?”

  She says, “No,” and smiles. A real smile. An amused one, like she’s happy here, with me. Like I made her smile with my fumbling, my blank white questions.

  I smile back. A real smile. I show too much. I let her see I’m happy here too. With her. Happy to be the gullible bird who swallows every plastic fish. Tell me another one; I’ll believe anything you say.

  She backs toward the door and says, “Have a good night.”

  I say, “You too. See you to… later.” I nearly say ‘tomorrow,’ remember that’s my day off, can’t remember what day of the week it is, decide it would be weird to say ‘see you Friday,’ like we have some kind of date, or ‘see you two days from now,’ and finish lamely, way too late.

  At the end of my shift I think about asking Parteek if I can work tomorrow anyway. I feel like I’m right at the tipping point of befriending her and don’t want to miss my chance. What if she thinks I quit, or stopped working graveyard?

  People have days off, I tell myself. I try to turn down the volume on my worrying as I head across town to meet Georgia for breakfast. My friends’ schedules overlap mine around the edges. We eat at a diner in her neighborhood with light green linoleum floor tiles that match the light green booth upholstery. I chew on a bagel with cream cheese and listen to her talk about the record shop.

  It’s a summer job, like mine, but lately she’s been talking like the record shop is her top priority. I ask her if she has her fall classes picked out and she puts her spoon in her coffee. She starts stirring before she’s added any milk or sugar.

  She stirs and says, “I think I’m going to take a semester off.”

  I say, “We only have two left.”

  “I know,” she gives me a hard look, “Obviously.”

  I shake my head, “What are you going to do? Work at the record shop?”

  She sighs and I can’t shake the night-shift mother in me. I flip my hands over on the table, palms up.

  She says, “Yes. That’s what I want.” She nods, “That’s what I want to do right now.”

  “And what about tomorrow?” I push her again.

  “Look,” she holds up
her hand to stop me, “What does a degree get you? Go ahead and finish. I bet you still won’t have any idea what you want.”

  “I want a degree,” I counter.

  “And then what?”

  “Then I’ll take it from there.”

  “That’s what I’m doing. I’m ‘taking it’ from right here. Why wait?”

  “Because you’re like, this far off the ground,” I hold my hand flat, a few inches over the table, “The only options you have are the ones right under you.”

  “You and your metaphors,” she shakes her head. She looks amused but the tight line of her mouth is defensive. “Here’s one for you. If we all have to climb our way from where we are to where we want to be, I might as well start climbing now.”

  “You’ll reach the first ledge and wish you had anchored a line first.”

  I leave Georgia and her record shop dreams. I go home and try to sleep but I keep replaying my clumsy goodbye to the beautiful girl with the bleached hair.

  When I wake up, the sun has already set. I eat breakfast on the floor with my phone in my lap and my cereal bowl balanced between my feet. My roommates are still up, but I keep to myself. Talking to them right before they go to sleep isn’t a great way to start my day.

  I put on a jacket, even though the day’s heat hasn’t fully faded. The train gets me to the movie theatre at 8:50 pm and Lenny is already at the door with tickets. We watch some grey-and-blue-washed action movie and I daydream like I’m still asleep.

  In this dream, she’s on her back on my couch and we’re home alone. I push up her skirt and kiss her thighs. I look at my short fingernails on her skin and pause. I think, I’m just a gullible clerk at a Mini Mart. She’s this beautiful girl, this apparition, who lies like it’s nothing. She floats in and out of this store I’m chained to, she wafts, she glides, she—

  One night wouldn’t be nearly enough time to do everything I want to do for her.

  —————

  I get to work early on Friday. I throw away my food-court-dinner food wrappers in the back and tuck my shirt in as I walk to the front. Parteek tells me he wants to sell more fruit. I say that’s a great idea.

  He asks, “But would they buy it?”

  “I would buy it. I would buy all of it. I’d go through like five, six bananas a night,” I say.

  He laughs, “Okay, okay.”

  She shows up twenty minutes past two in the morning.

  I walk out from behind the counter, “So what do you really do?”

  She calls back without looking at me, “I take care of a baby.”

  “No,” I shake my head, “I know that type. You don’t have the bags under your eyes for that.”

  She says, as if in reply, “I take care of my grandmother. She just had surgery and she needs my help.”

  “Really?”

  “No,” she looks at me, “I told you I was working.”

  “So tell me.”

  She shakes her head, “It’s not that cool.”

  That one snags on something personal. I walk up to her. “So what? Is this cool? I work at a Mini Mart. Come on.”

  She laughs.

  I lean against the shelves. I’m torn between asking her name and asking, “So…” I scratch my nose, stalling, “We should hang out.” It doesn’t come out like a question because I don’t know what to ask. Do you want? Would you? Can you give me a chance?

  I expect her to laugh. At me. Or the graceless come on. Or the stupidity of making plans at a Mini Mart at midnight. But she looks startled. Her eyes are wide and unsure. She says, “When?”

  I smile crookedly, trying to put her at ease, “Well you’re ‘working,’ so when’s your lunch break?”

  She says, “When’s yours?”

  “I don’t have one,” I shrug. “The boss is a cheapskate. There’s no one to watch the counter for me. Upside is, I can eat anything in the store for free.”

  She laughs and I want to kiss her.

  She says, “My break is right now.”

  “Oh!” I turn away from her and toward the fridges, camouflaging the flush of excitement in my stomach, “Then let’s get you something to eat. On the house.” She walks around the store with me, carrying everything I hand her. Cheese and crackers, yogurt, chocolate milk, eat-out-of-the-can noodle soup, and a can of Orange Crush.

  I lead her out the front doors and we sit on the curb. I’m breaking every single one of Parteek’s rules. Her hair glows like a cloud in the light coming out the door. Her face is even more beautiful with the streetlight shadows shading it. She eats and I tell her Mini Mart horror stories. About half are made up, a handful I heard from the guy who trained me, and the rest are true. I don’t think she believes a single one.

  She has this soft “mmhmm” sound she uses to say “keep going” or “I’m listening” without tipping her hand, showing me if she thinks I’m any good or worth her time.

  She laughs when I tell her about the woman who paid for a dozen eggs with pennies—that’s a true one—and my body tips toward her. I want to be closer but I don’t know how. It feels like she just lets me see a sliver of herself at a time.

  I’m halfway through a story about a fortune teller who wanted to pay for her Snickers by reading my future—that one’s made up, I just wanted an excuse to touch her palm—when the old butch walks up. I stand up the second I see her, but she waves me down.

  “Stay there baby,” she says as she lurches up onto the curb, one hand on her knee for leverage, “I’ll leave your money on the counter.”

  I thank her and sit down again. I hold out my hand to finish the fortune teller story and the beautiful girl puts her hand in mine.

  “Hey,” I say, “What’s your name?”

  “Maria.”

  I point to my name tag, “I’m Jean. But my friends call me Naej.”

  The old butch comes out with her coffee. She waves and I wave back.

  I say, “It’s like Jean, but backwards.”

  Maria says, “Mmhmm.”

  I shake my head, my face still serious, “I’m just kidding. My friends call me G.”

  “I can’t tell when you’re serious.”

  “Same to you. Are you coming back tomorrow?”

  She nods. I kiss her.

  No slow lean in, no feeling her out. No breathing close with our noses touching. I just tilt my head and swoop in. I catch her lips and press them full and flush with my own.

  So tough when I’m staring at a distance, so soft up close. It feels like I’m sharing my secret with a stranger. I’m soft inside, just like you, and I want sex. I don’t know why. I want to fuck you. Gently, like I know you inside and out and have nothing to prove. I want to fuck with you. Not, I want to fuck you up, or mess with your trust, I want both of us to fuck. I don’t want to do it to you; I want to do it with you. Slip from the sidewalk curb to unbelievable pleasure together. I whimper, vulnerable against Maria’s lips.

  Then I kiss her properly, but in reverse. First, I kiss her. Then, I pull back just far enough for our lips to brush. I touch her nose with mine and breathe in. I lean back to see her lips, then look up into her eyes.

  I mumble, light-headed with a thick tongue, “If you don’t want to do that, we don’t have to. We can just have midnight lunch and hang.”

  Maria looks down at my mouth and says, “Tomorrow. 2 am. Make me something special.”

  I nod and she leaves. I throw away our wrappers. No one drank the can of Orange Crush so I put it back in the fridge. I ring up our food in the register, take $11.24 out of my wallet, and put it in the till.

  —————

  Maria comes through the doors at 2 am sharp. She has on the same skirt she was wearing the first time I saw her, a green t-shirt, and no bra. The points of her nipples pull it into a loose tent. The sides bulge when she walks and her breasts sway into the fabric.

  I say, “I have something special for you.”

  She raises her eyebrows.

  “A fresh omelet!” I
wave my hands dramatically.

  “Wow,” she nods, “Okay. I’m ready to be impressed.”

  I lead her over to the microwave by the soda fountain, where I have my ingredients prepared. I crack three fresh eggs into a soda cup, chop up the basil, mozzarella, and tomatoes I got from a packaged Caprese salad in the fridge, and pour it all into a shallow, plastic lid I swiped from a microwavable pasta dinner.

  I put the lid in the microwave and set it to 30 seconds. The bread from the sandwich isn’t too soggy, so I set it cut-side down on top of the heat lamp that warms the hot dogs. Maria watches me flip the omelet with the help of a paper plate and microwave it for another 30 seconds. I flip it and microwave it twice more, to be sure it’s cooked through.

  Then I pull the bread off the lamp with a napkin. I swipe a Hershey’s bar from the candy shelf, peel back the wrapper, and run a plastic knife along the thin edge to make chocolate shavings. Maria ‘ooh’s as they land on the hot bread and melt. I laugh, nervous and bashful, my feelings on display.

  Part of fucking a girl right is being willing to work in front of her. You have to be willing to really do something, to really concentrate and care that it comes out right. You have to do it right in front of her and show her you’re not afraid. You have to show her you can pay attention to the details. You have to show her you will make her the best microwave omelet in the world, with the most delicious chocolate toast. You will make something from nothing and with those same thin hands and ready mouth, you will lift her up and lay her out. You will listen. You will be patient. You will surprise her. You will make her come.

  I set her up on the sidewalk with a plastic knife and fork, a shitload of napkins, a handful of single-serve packets of salt and pepper from the food court, and a carton of milk. She eats her breakfast. I watch her with my head in my hand.

  She tells me she’s never had an omelet this good and I swat my hand like she’s flattering me. But I believe her. No one makes omelets as good as mine, not even on a stove. She finishes eating and needles me about when and where I’m going to culinary school. I make it through ten minutes of flirtatious small talk before I kiss her again.