ALL ABOUT MCDONALDS

He was always missing signs. Nonverbal communication signs. Hints. Some direct.

How did he know he couldn't read them? Others could and others told him.

But he had misread them, too. So he finally stopped trying to read the opposite sex. What they said, he took at face value.

Until he saw her throw her hair back. Tilt her head. Part her lips. And look up at him that way. Bedroom eyes someone once called it. There was little doubt about her intention.

She wouldn't break his gaze. She was moony eyed others called it. She was transfixed on his very being. What I mean by that is, she acted as if there was no other in the world but him. She looked long and hard.

They stood close. So close that he could smell McDonald's on her. That's right. Behind all that glamor. Beyond all those sighs and attention directed only at him, he could smell the grease. The without a doubt distinctive odor of McDonalds.

And what did that say? What did that do to him? It made him think of a Wendy's Frosty. Vanilla. Just like him.