Fishing for Mermaids

Burger Cafe

After I left my cheating ex-boyfriend, I moved into an efficiency apartment above Burger Cafe, a hole-in-the-wall I never noticed when I was dating Hank.

All my things, including my pots and pans, are still packed away, and even the thought of ripping open boxes, digging for supplies, and finally cooking tires me. That's when the scent of juicy, browned meat creeps up from the vents and breathes life into my limbs. I'll unpack later, I think, as I float to the door and down the stairs.

I have to re-enter society for a few short steps before I can immerse myself in the umami fog emanating from Burger Cafe. As I turn into the restaurant, I think I see Hank out of the corner of my eye. But when I sneak a glance, I see that no one is there. The tricks a broken heart plays on the human mind.

I pull the door open, and am immediately punched with the salty savory scent of simmering beef. My landlords are a husband and wife team of burger experts, hoping the meager rent will help them expand their grilling business to other parts of the city. Or at least a bigger place. There are maybe four tables with two chairs each lining the walls, and, being that they must have just opened their doors for the day, I am the only customer.

The wife, Madge, who I only just met two days ago when I signed the lease, is at the front of the store, grilling behind the counter, which only adds four more seats to the restaurant. She sings a tune she must be inventing herself about making burger patties, because it hardly rhymes and is specific to what she's doing in that instance. I plant myself on one of the cushioned stools at the counter, and ring the silver bell to get her attention.

She spins around, her ripples of digested beef fat turning half a second more slowly than the rest of her body, and smiles a wide, toothy grin.

"Greta!" she calls, though there can't be more than two feet between us. "I was hoping you'd stop by!" She's still shouting, and though it's past noon, it's still too early for that kind of energy. "I have been grilling up these patties just for you, sweet girl."

"Oh, thanks, Madge. How'd you know I'd be coming?"

"All the tenants come down their first day," she boasts, leaning toward me so closely that I can see the fuzzy black hairs collecting sweat over her lip.

She pushes her pork chop arms from the counter, and spins back around to flip my burger. The grease crackles and excites the fire beneath it, as Madge continues her song: "Flippin' Greta's burger and she's waiting for me. Cookin' in the kitchen, smellin' savor-roo-y," she giggles.

The husband, Phil, pokes his head out from behind a door into the back, wrapping one of his gloved, bloody hands around the door frame. Do they butcher their own meat? He smiles at me, chomping his pointed teeth over his bloated lower lip.

"Does she like it?" he spurts.

Madge answers in song: "Haven't tried it yet but it sure smells yummy." She turns back to me, only her face this time, and says, "All our tenants love our burgers."

Phil laughs to himself and disappears behind the door, leaving only four red finger lakes on the door.

My stomach flips in both hunger and disgust, and suddenly the thought of unpacking... or just walking to a different restaurant... doesn't seem so tiring.

"You know what," I start, pushing myself from the counter, "I just remembered I have some stuff to do upstairs. So, I'm going to head back."

"No, you're not," Madge asserts, her jelly-filled cheeks quivering. The spatula is raised above her head, as if she's preparing to flip me instead.

I run through the options in my head: I don't want to offend my new landlords, especially at the price they're charging for rent, and I can't move back in with Hank, though he should have been the one to move out. But it's not worth starting any more drama in my life over an unusually prepared burger.