Lunchtime

I ripped the tag off my bright white T-shirt and threw it on. I had little time to get ready but I was glad my outfit was presentable. I welcomed the switch from my all-black uniform.

My roommate, Erika, and I raced to pack our schoolbags, turn off the light and told our Spanish mother goodbye. We ran down the stairs, through the foyer, to the street outside.

Buses and cars whizzed by as we crossed through the city. We needed Wi-Fi and we needed to eat before school started.

Erika wanted to go to a burger place, The Good Burger. She had gone there the day before.

“It’s just like In-N-Out,” Erika said.

We were in another country and I wanted to experience something uniquely Valencian.

“I’ll just find something else to eat,” I replied. I looked around and nothing piqued my interest. There were some chain cafés and a kebob shop. I sighed giving up on my previous thought and begrudgingly followed Erika through the door.

We ordered two cheeseburgers, setting up our computers for a working lunch as we waited for our meals to finish cooking.

The buzzer buzzed and we ran over to the counter to grab our tray. I took my burger over to the condiments.

I flipped the burger and opened the soft bun and freshly seared patty. I gently pushed the ketchup spout down and out flung the red, sweet goo, — not on the awaiting burger, but straight onto my shirt, pants, and floor.

I tried pushing the spout again, this time successfully landing the ketchup onto the patty.

I carefully walked back over to my table and set my tray down.

I showed Erika what had happened. Her face turned horrified.

I calmly walked to the restroom and found no paper towels, only toilet paper to use. I attempted to scrape the ketchup off with it and then threw the soiled paper into the trashcan. I returned to the toilet roll and pulled a few more sheets off. I turned on the faucet, wetting the paper, and squeezed. I gently massaged the ketchup stains, but it didn’t work. The toilet paper began to disintegrate. The red splatters starkly proved this method was not working.

I ran out of the bathroom for napkins, perhaps they would better hold up. I returned to the sink with a small stack. The ink of the restaurant’s logo began rubbing onto my shirt mixing with the ketchup.

Disheartened, I walked back to the table with smeared red splotches and green ink on my otherwise brilliantly, white shirt. I gave in to the chaos displayed upon my shirt and continued eating and working.

I knew I should have gone to eat somewhere else. Perhaps if I had been more inquisitive, I would have stumbled upon the another restaurant, FooDoo, only a block away, where we ate the next day. This time I wore black; my soiled white shirt lay in the hamper at home.