Will You Still Love Me… Tomorrow?

Frances did not consider herself a benevolent god. But still, she supposed, there were some small duties owed to her subjects—frail, inconstant creatures that they were. And so, with reluctance, she inquired of the two before her:

"What can I do for you?"'

And yet, to the surprise of none, her pleasantry went unrequited. For after a good ten minutes of staring forcefully into their menus and what she could only guess was an entire morning of deftly avoiding the other's gaze, the newly-minted lovers had suddenly made the simultaneous mistake of glancing up at one another from across the table.

Stale breath hitched. Bloodshot eyes widened. At least one chapped bottom lip succumbed to gravity.

Frances endured it all with divine patience. Honestly, they were acting as though the ground below them had disappeared and they were about to fall blindly into a great fault line of the universe, checkered tablecloth, bric-a-brac, and all.

In the end, they said nothing, and their eyes darted back to the safety of their plastic menus.

Frances sighed. It wasn't the first time she'd dealt with this, and it wouldn't be the last.

"I recommend the Pancake Special," she continued, tapping her notepad. "Or the Pancake Supreme."

Frances was obviously trying to move things along. There were other subjects to tend to, other offerings to collect, other anonymous life moments to observe from afar. But alas, her efforts with these two were again in vain.

They were each clearly waiting for the other to go first, perhaps also for the return of air to their lungs, the return blood to their veins, and the return whatever sense of normalcy last night had ostensibly eviscerated.

It was among the worst cases Frances had ever seen. If anything were capable of ripping a black hole into the net of spacetime, surely it was the crushing weight of the Morning After Awkwardness radiating from Table 6.

Indeed, even Frances was momentarily fascinated with calculating of all of the depraved things they must have done in the last twelve hours to generate such a Great Mass of Unease.

Finally, one of them spoke. It was the girl.

"Do you…" she began slowly. "Do you have anything that's…"

Yes, child, name to me your desire—

"Not pancakes?"

Frances deflated. Had these people no respect? They were at the great and flavorful temple that was Ye Olde Pancakes for Christ's fucking sake. Of course they only had pancakes. Everyone knew that.

"Ca-sey."

Ah, the boy. His knuckles were white-gripped around the menu. His voice was low, careful, tentative. He had finally summoned up the courage to look at her non-accidentally. It somehow inspired her to do the same.

Their eyes were unblinking.

"It's Ye Olde Pancakes," he said.

By the way they were looking at one another, it was probably the first thing out of hismouth since hertongue.

"They only have pancakes," was the second.

Her tongue, or possibly other things.

"Everyone knows that," was the third.

So definitely other things.

The girl—Ca-sey—stared back at him. "They can't only have pancakes."

The boy's eyes squinted but didn't blink.

"I'm sorry," Frances interjected. Because joining the Awkwardness Party now was a Plus One of Hostility, and Frances was perfectly happy to go her entire Saturday without ever witnessing the Synchronized Explosion of Two Supergiant Sacks of Hot Air and Residual Whiskey. "We only have pancakes."

"You can't only have pancakes, Der-ek," said the girl, without looking at Frances. "Having pancakes is not the only action of which this restaurant is capable. They also cook pancakes. And sell pancakes. Ostensibly."

Good use of ostensibly.

The boy—Der-ek—glanced sideways for a moment, as though pondering Some Profundity, then looked back at the girl. He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again.

"They have only pancakes," he ventured.

The girl stared at him again. It was unclear whether she was considering his proposal or just trying to prove that she was better at Unflinching Eye Contact.

"They have pancakes only," she said at length. But then she cocked her head to the side, and her eyebrows furrowed. "They have only pancakes…" She muttered. "They have pancakes only..."

"You're talking to yourself," the boy whispered.

"You're whispering," the girl whispered back.

"Yes. Because I'm pointing out the fact that you're talking to yourself."

"It's more pleasant than talking to you. Or…whispering to you."

"Keening, in fact. You're keening to yourself. In pubic. About grammar. You're publicly keening to yourself about grammar."

"So? It's what I do."

"It's embarrassing."

"And you're…what? Trying to keep me from embarrassing myself?"

This statement, more than anything, seemed to embarrass them both.

"Yes. No. No. NO! It's not that I'm trying to—I'm not trying to—I'm not trying anything."

The girl was confused.

The boy was confused.

Frances was confused.

"Whatever," said the girl. She put down her menu and gesticulated at it. "They must have something that's not pancakes."

"No," said Frances, suddenly remembering that she was a sentient being charged with making order of an absurd universe.

Or, well, taking orders. Of customers. In Ye Olde Pancakes.

"I'm sorry. We only have pancakes. We…have only pancakes? It's pancakes only."

"It's pancakes only, Case."

The boy folded his menu and set it to the side as though the folding of it had settled the matter.

But the girl was not satisfied. She ripped her menu from the table and re-read it determinedly.

"It can't be pancakes only, Derek. They have to have eggs." Her eyes scoured the menu for eggs and what was left of her dignity. "Otherwise, how do they make the pancakes?"

"They could make them from a box. Box pancakes. With pancake powder."

"You still need eggs for box pancakes."

Oh child, thought Frances. You seek a dangerous truth.

"Maybe they have different box pancakes. Maybe they have special pancake powder."

"You think they have special pancake powder that's different from the pancake powder to which the entire box-pancake-eating world has access?"

To which—wow.

"It's Ye Old Pancakes." His elbows were on the table now and his chin was in his palm and his eyes were in hers. "It's possible."

"Is this magic pancake powder? Do you think they buy it from the same guy who sold Jack his beanstalk beans?"

"That's from a movie," he said with pointed finger. "It's not an original insult."

"You…You're…" She cast her menu to the side and crossed her arms. "You're…not an original insult."

"Wow," he deadpanned. "That's the worst insult I've ever heard."

Frances nodded faintly in agreement.

The girl stared at the salt shaker for several moments as though it had personally wronged her.

"What's the matter, Case, cat got your tongue?" His fingers drummed along his four o'clock shadow.

"I should have bitten yours off when I had the chance."

He froze instantly, as did Frances, in the wake of the girl's devastatingly reemergent repartee.

The girl, too, seemed to realize immediately what she had said, and worked frantically to change the subject.

"Sides," she sputtered. "Sides. They have to have sides. Who serves pancakes without sides?"

It took Frances a moment to realize they were both looking at her in expectation of a miracle, or at least some response that might anchor them more firmly to the change of subject and a more bearable unreality.

"We…yes. We do have sides. Um, sausage. We have sausages. Hot, hot sausages." Wow, not helping. "And, actually, we do have eggs."

"Wonderful. I'll take two eggs. And a side of s—"

She couldn't say it.

"Ham. A side of ham."

"I'll take the pancakes."

Frances scribbled this all down. Scribbled all this down? Scribbled—

"Which pancakes?"

"The magic pancakes. The ones from Jack's beanstalk beans seller."

He smirked. A small smirk. The kind that just tickled at corners of his eyes and his lips and the edges of his words. God damn, it was probably the best smirk Frances had ever seen. She looked quickly to see whether the girl's response was to deadpan, eyeroll, or leap across the table and strangle him.

It was none of them. It was fear—pearls of pure fear—that were her eyes. And as soon as he saw it, he stopped cold. They looked so vulnerable in that moment. Frances felt the slightest word might shatter them.

"Yeah, ok, I'm just going to write down Pancake Supreme."

"Fine," whispered the boy.

"Fine," whispered the girl.

"She wasn't talking to you, Case."

Christ. It's like he can't help himself.

"But your comment was clearly directed at me."

"But hers wasn't. Not everything is about you, Case."

"Not everything is about you, Der-ek."

There were burdens that Frances was accustomed to bearing. Many, many burdens. Sometimes all at once. But the curiosity burning inside her now was nothing like she had ever carried before. It was hungry, growing, yearning to break free and sate itself upon the indignity of those that spawned it.

No, Frances was not a benevolent god. But even she saw the injustice of keeping that curiosity prisoner.

"Can I…" Frances began, the flames pressing against her throat, their moment of freedom at hand. "Can I just ask…"

"Water," they both said.

Dammit.

"Right, ok, water."

Frances wrote that down.

"Water yes. But actually, can I just ask…" Once again, they both turned to look at her. "Can I just ask, what…what was it?"

They stared at her blankly.

"What was what?"

Frances looked between them, astounded that this level of psychological denial was humanly possible.

"Whatever you two did last night. What was it?"

In all of Hades, there was nothing deader than their silence.

"Was it..." Frances glanced around the dining area and lowered her voice to a whisper. "Was it ana—"

"GOD NO."

Frances blinked. Their faces were pale. So, so pale. The boy looked to be in shock. His hand had not moved from his chin, but his eyes were wide as saucers and fixated on some nameless point beyond the girl's shoulder. His entire body had stilled. Possibly he thought that if they could just stay frozen here in this wretched moment, the next and worst would never come.

Across from him, the girl looked positively panicked. Her downcast eyes darted back and forth repeatedly as though searching for some hole in the universe into which she might crawl or at the very least vomit before the inevitable transpired.

"So…what then?" Frances smiled innocently. She was undaunted by their continued silence. After all, Silence and Time were the best serum for Truth—and she had all morning.

It was the boy, entranced, staring dead ahead, who cracked first.

"We made out."

The girl choked on some sharply inhaled air.

"At Mickey Hale's house party."

Possibly, she was about to have an aneurism.

"On his kitchen counter."

Possibly, she was about to punch him.

"And then the cops came."

Possibly, she was about to kill him.

"Der-ek! Why are you telling her this?"

"Gee, Case, do you really want her to think we—" He gave up, the end of the sentence too much for him thematically.

"Will you please just get our food?"

"Right—yes—but—" Frances ripped their ticket from her notepad. "Just so I understand…you…made out?"

Silence.

"That's…that's it?"

"That's it?" the girl repeated. "What do you mean, that's it? Don't you understand?"

Frances scoffed. "Well I'm not omniscient."

"And clearly not omnibenevolent—"

"Our parents married each other."

The girl's hands attached firmly to her face. The boy's eyes regarded firmly anything but that.

"Oh," said Frances. "Oh. Well, that's…that's…"

They regarded the stains upon their napkins with absolute horror.

"That's really…not that weird."

And lo, the napkin stains became wormholes.

"I mean…I'd…I'd ship it."

And the napkin-wormholes became Armageddon, swirling and expanding from The One Point to uncountable points, from the morning's known horizon to That Dawn Line Ever Farther, from all those things strange-familiar to new things familiar-strange.

Such was The Morning After.

Such was Ye Olde Pancakes.

Such was the kingdom of Frances, now and forever.

Choking, breathtaking, horrifying.

(At least, it was hoped, until graduation.)