Free The Decent Proposal by Kemper Donovan

while she liked to think she couldn’t get enough of it, two nights in a row felt a little gluttonous to her. But if she told him, then they’d have to go somewhere else, and In-N-Out was by far their best option in this menagerie of horrors. Why had he chosen this awful place? It was the ideal spot for a couple half their age. Maybe that’s the point , she told herself. It wasn’t a real date. She was the one who had insisted on acknowledging they were only going through the motions. The motions were what she had wanted; the motions were supposed to be instructional. Well, here was lesson number one, then: the motions were exhausting. Earlier in the week she’d decided all her nice clothes were daytime-specific, and had squandered several billable hours finding a somewhat slinky, glossy “evening” skirt to wear. The better part of this afternoon had been spent fussing over her hair and nails. She’d endured an hour and fifteen minutes’ worth of traffic—the 10 to the 405 to the 101—in getting here. How didpeople do this night after night, year after year, and maintain the goodwill necessary to search with an open heart for a connection they knew very well they might never find? Maybe it wasn’t as difficult for other people. Maybe there was something wrong with her, something essential she lacked, the absence of which made the process of dating such drudgery for her and her alone. Or maybe everybody was miserable.
    Stop it , she scolded herself. The venue notwithstanding, she had to admit he’d made an effort too. It was true he was still wearing jeans, but they were different jeans: clean(er), with no visible rips. His shirt had an actual collar, and when he held the restaurant door open for her she caught a whiff of something nice—nicer, anyway, than the Axe body spray and Drakkar Noir-ish stuff that clogged the hallways of her firm. The scent vanished a moment later, replaced by fried beef and deeper-fried potatoes—a greasy aroma that greeted her like an old flame she couldn’t quit no matter how many times she tried. Elizabeth’s spirits lifted. Was it really so bad to be “forced” to eat In-N-Out two nights in a row? True, it had been hellish getting here, but she was out now—out, on a Saturday night—and though she was considerably overdressed for fast food on a tray, he didn’t seem to care, so why should she be embarrassed? The whole thing was ridiculous, but the only rational response was to throw up her hands (lavender nail polish included) and relax, to attempt to have some version of what other people called fun .
    In-N-Out had a fifties aesthetic, all clean lines and hard plastic edges, with a two-toned color scheme of bright red and blinding white, so simple it would have been stark if the place weren’t always bursting with people. At the moment a dozen smiling servers were racing behind the counter like natives cheerfully fleeing a volcano. Richard knew from experience his eyes would adjust eventually, as if to the dark, discerning a frenetic sort of assembly line underpinning the chaos. This wasthe way it had been done at In-N-Out for nearly seventy years, starting with a single burger stand just outside L.A. He loved the chain as much for its association with Southern California as for its mouthwatering cuisine, and hated that in the past decade it had begun expanding eastward, inching across the continent like a pioneer in reverse. For now it was confined to the western United States, but if ever there came a day when those little red palm trees appeared on the awning of some gray New York City block, Richard knew a little part of him would die.
    â€œYou’ve eaten here before, right?” he asked her, as they joined the back of the line.
    Little did he know. “I grew up on it,” said Elizabeth.
    â€œOh, no way! So you grew up out here?”
    She nodded.
    â€œThat’s so cool! I