Zoe caught sight of X coming down the beach. He waded toward her through the water, his pants soaked, his shirt flapping against his chest like a sail in the wind. He was carrying two plastic bags. When he noticed her perched in the doorway of the hut, he lifted the bags high and shouted the most surprising thing she’d ever heard him say: “Breakfast!”
X climbed the ladder, and handed Zoe the bags. For a moment, he stood in the doorway, wringing the cold salt water out of his pants. His face was flushed from the wind. He looked weirdly happy. Giddy, almost. Zoe had seen him twirl Stan like a baton. She had seen him stagger into the ice storm to confront a lord. But she had never seen him as proud of anything as he was of having successfully ordered takeout.
She watched as X converted his coat into a picnic blanket—she made a mental note to get the thing dry-cleaned—and unpacked the bags.
They held three Styrofoam containers, which were still so warm that they perspired slightly. There was also a bizarre number of cans: a Canada Dry Ginger Ale, a Big 8 Cola, a Jolt Cola, an RC Cola, a tomato juice, and a Diet Dr Pepper.
“I demand that you explain this amazing triumph,” said Zoe.
X looked at her sheepishly.
“Surely there are more important matters before us?” he said.
“I can’t think of any,” she said. X seemed unconvinced so she added, “I need to hear something happy. Everything else is too awful. Let’s just talk about food for a little while? Please?”
He said he’d taken the money from Zoe’s pockets as she slept—he still felt bad about it—then wandered along the road until he discovered a restaurant. It was a bright, loud place, full of laughter and clinking glass. Everyone swiveled toward him when he walked in—partly, he supposed, because he wasn’t wearing a coat and his hair was not quite presentable.
Zoe snuck a look at X’s hair, and smiled. It pointed in every direction like a sign at an intersection.
X said that he’d panicked as the diners inspected him. He thought of fleeing, but a woman with bright yellow hair and a pencil welcomed him and set him at ease. X pretended he couldn’t speak English. The yellow-haired woman found this endearing. She toured the establishment with him, miming that he should look at everyone’s plates and point to what he wanted.
“Oh my god, she was flirting with you,” Zoe interrupted. “I may have to go back and have a talk with her.”
X had been telling his story excitedly—breathlessly, almost. He stumbled to a stop now, confused by Zoe’s comment.
“Never mind,” she said. “Keep going. This is my favorite story of all time.”
All the diners, X said, wanted him to choose their food. It became a game. They lifted their plates to him as he passed, hoping for his approval. Whenever he selected something, a cheer would go up, and the waitress would scribble on her little rectangle of paper. His only difficulty had been choosing the drinks because he couldn’t see what was inside the cans. He hoped she found something here acceptable?
She assured him that she did. She took the ginger ale for herself and, when he reached for the Jolt Cola, guided him toward the tomato juice instead, saying, “I think you’re jacked up enough already.”
Next came the ceremonial opening of the Styrofoam boxes. X watched as Zoe gazed inside them. He looked so nervous that it would have moved her to tears if she hadn’t been starving. In the first box, there were two thick, buttered slices of French toast, each with a whorl of cinnamon in the center, and a side of wavy, gleaming bacon. In the second, there was a golden mound of onion rings and a small container of blue cheese dressing. In the third, there was a slice of molten chocolate cake so enormous that an elastic band had been stretched around the box to keep it safely inside.
X stared at Zoe, desperate for a verdict.
“I do not pretend to know what constitutes a meal,” he said.
She leaned over the boxes, put a hand behind his neck, and pulled him close for a kiss.
“These are the best foods on earth,” she said. “How did you know?”
X beamed.
“Should we begin with this?” he said, pointing to the chocolate cake.
“Obviously,” said Zoe.
The waitress had forgotten to give them silverware—or paper plates or napkins—so they ate with their hands.