Amour Chez Applebees

A thick, meaty straw gave them a glimpse of satisfaction. They slurped eagerly staring into each other's souls. John had asked for a glass with no ice, but that was a thing of the past. The tap water filled them with a pleasure so great that they could barely grunt out its name.

It had been six torturous months since they had broken bread at the faming dining establishment. When Chrissy's husband dropped dead in Booth 22 she found herself unable to return to the restaurant chain without tears. The sight of the neon sign brought the image of her husband's thick face collapsed in a plastic basket of endless nachos. She had always suspected that her husband wouldn't be able satisfy her needs. Chrissy was a wild, untamed spirit. She wanted a raucous celebration at Applebee's, 20-40 minutes to digest, and a gratuitous lovemaking session afterward. Her husband preferred a TV dinner and a quiet night in bed. One day, she managed to coax him into going out on the town with her. While she promised several rounds of missionary after dessert, he couldn't even make it through the appetizer. Chrissy still felt enormous guilt diving into her Chicken Wonton Tacos.

For John, on the other hand, Applebee's was the perfect venue for revenge. Months spent at the vastly inferior Denny's felt like endless years. His wife knew how John hated the way they smeared margarine on the toast and called it butter. He hated the way that drug addicts would cluster in the parking lot. He hated the way that the server would give them a furtive glance as he led them to the table. In his mind, he suspected that the waiter was mad at him for stiffing the tip a couple of times when John didn't have any pocket change. John never could have predicted that the server was on his side, secretly judging his wife for her secretive trysts with his coworker.

Maybe Jeremy the Waiter had spit in her drink. A worse thought. Maybe Jeremy had spit in both of their drinks, determined to catch the culprit regardless of how the glasses on the tray were arranged. Suddenly, John's water glass became less appetizing. After all, an eyelash skated around the rim of the plastic mug.

Sensing his recoil, Chrissy stuck her tiny hand under the table and onto John's thigh. It was if she knew that every time he touched the stickiness of the table, he imagined his wife and Svetlana rolling over each other in the Denny's alleyway all over again. In the midnight haze, the two women were feral cats, groping at each other shirts, buttons spilling into the busted take out containers and onion ring grease. It wasn't until Svetlana punctured one of the garbage bags with her fake nails that his wife noticed John standing in the corner, wide-eyed and gaping. He was so frozen in time that he could hardly hide his quickly stiffening rod.

However, right now, his rod was fixated on the delicious marbling of his Whisky Bacon Burger. John's physique was that of a man who didn't often indulge in burgers. He was a manual laborer in the town packaging plant and due for a raise far before he would get one. Warehouse work was a mind-numbing job that barely paid overtime. However, it was enough to keep the lights on and it kept John's abs glistening with the slightest bead of sweat at all times. That was part of what made his wife's betrayal so deep. He was pulling thankless 60 hour weeks for their three-year old daughter. A perfect gentleman, he had let his wife stay in the house with their daughter even after she cheated. He was stuck eating McDonald's off the floor of their Subaru Forrester. By comparison, Applebee's deserved a Michelin star.

And Chrissy was the hottest thing on their menu. So many times, he had stopped himself from flirting with the attractive ginger-haired receptionist of the warehouse. Her plaid skirts revealed only the classiest bit of thin, pale leg. They had a budding romance though few words had been exchanged between them. When Chrissy made coffee rounds, she always made sure that his mug was filled to the brim. When their tyrannical and demanding boss made a sexual advance at her, it was John who stepped up in her defense. The other men merely cowered at their workstations. John told the bastard what people really thought of him. He probably would have been fired if not for the opportune phone call his boss received at the exact moment John began to raise his voice. Apparently, losing his grandmother made his boss a more forgiving man. John was allowed to stay and Chrissy extended an offer to take him out to dinner for his thankless heroism.

So many unfortunate events later, here they were. Chrissy looked at John with even more tenderness than she looked at her chicken entrée. Just like her three-cheese chicken cavatappi, John's smile made her lower half all gooey inside. It was a dimension far beyond lust. Chrissy felt the deepest connection a person could have with John as he fed her a few bites of overcooked steak. She could imagine visiting Italy with John, hearing his husky laugh over the Leaning Tower of Piza, eating pizza on the streets of Sicily. Chrissy could see herself becoming a real mother to John's daughter, buying the girl her first set of tampons, teaching her how to drive, balking at the girl's choice of wedding theme colors. Chrissy was determined to be a much better wife than the old one had been. She would even cook and clean just to keep his heart. Which was such a surprise, because she always considered herself a fiercely independent woman!

John was still living out of his car and Chrissy refused to go into all the rooms her husband had fallen asleep at the TV in. They hadn't made no plans to go back to either one of their apartments, but the sexual tension was becoming unbearable. They ravenously devoured each other with their eyes as they tore apart a complimentary plate of nachos from a gentleman doing quite well at trivia night. Wordlessly, John and Chrissy connected and instantly knew what to do.

First, Chrissy's hand splayed wide on the table. She gripped the fake wood for balance and dragged her stiletto onto the knobby coasters. Chrissy was an independent woman and far past time to take what she wanted. The tips of her blouse started to spill in the nacho cheese, but his touch was too intoxicating to pull away. She grasped John's broad, muscular shoulders and planted an aggressive kiss on his lips. He sucked eagerly at her mouth. The scent of her, God, the scent of her. It was as if her lips were the teats of the tree of life. He quickly unbuckled his jeans to reduce discomfort.

He followed her onto the table, gripping her tightly and falling waist-deep in microwave reheated delicacies. Elbows fell into garlic dipping sauces as their hands explored each other for what felt like the first time in eternity. The sweating, passion in the room could be chewed on and swallowed. Every clatter of the metal forks was a universal declaration of their love.

John, always the gentleman, tried to move Chrissy's hair out of the salsa as she tossed around on the tabletop. Red and green chunks flew everywhere. Chrissy, now covered in condiments, returned right back to where she went off. A thunderous rhythm developed as John immersed himself in the power of the moment. He gyrated with the sweet liberation of animalistic instinct. Plastic plates buckled under their combined weight.

Other patrons passed by with a serious, but nonjudgmental curiosity. An old woman left to powder her nose, a young child came looking for the bathroom. Each passerby gazed on with a lingering glance at John's unbuttoned top and Chrissy's mustard stained skirt. Eventually, the onlookers moved on. It wasn't the first public fucking at Applebee's and it wouldn't be the last.