15%

Only 15% of couples meet at a restaurant or bar. The majority of that percentage meet at, you guessed it, a bar. It's hard to come across someone you fancy eating at a restaurant alone.

I imagine it's even harder seeing someone working at said restaurant you fancy.

But I didn't really meet Craig at Howie's.

Let's try this again.

35%

Surprisingly, 35% of couples meet online. Either through dating sites, social media sites, or in some cases, online game play.

I count Letters with People to be online, I'm sure there's a desktop version somewhere.

But I guess I didn't technically meet Craig through Letters with People.

One more time.

9%

This small percentage is the amount of people that meet their significant other in high school. Of that 9%, only 2% end up with their 'high school sweetheart'.

Since Craig and I were the farthest thing from sweethearts in high school, this last percentage has no relevance, except that we would fall into the remaining 7%.

The chances aren't very good for us, though, are they?

Take that 7%, add the 15% and the 35% and that's 57%. The odds are now in our favor. Optimistic? Yes. Logical? No, but a guy can pray for a miracle, right?

That's what I'm doing as I walk into Howie's Diner. It's a little busier than the first time I walked in and it seems like the hostess tonight is not as thrilled to be at work, but I try not to hold that against her. She doesn't even greet me, just lifts her head, waiting for my answer to the question she never asked.

"Just one." I say, holding up my left index finger just in case she might be deaf, in which case it's totally okay for her not to ask the question verbally.

The girl pulls a menu from underneath her podium, marks on her laminated map of the restaurant and grunts her first words to me, "this way."

So she's not mute. Thinking about it, it would be hard to hire someone that's deaf to fill a hostess position. I understand there are equal opportunity laws, but I've seen girls I know for a fact have perfectly fine hearing skills listen to nothing a customer says.

"How many?" I heard a girl ask once.

"Well, there's about 8 adults and possible two kids, and we'll need a booster seat for one." The customer responded, sounding very prepared and literate. Probably used to having such a large table request.

"Do you think you can squeeze into one of our booths?"

I mean really...

But this hostess seems to lack nothing but manners. She rushes past a family taking their sweet time walking to the salad bar, leaving me to crane my neck to make sure I saw which way she went. Once I finally catch up to her she already has the menu on the table and is on her way back to her podium.

How nice.

The waitress (not Krista) takes my order and leaves me just as quickly as she came. I am prepared this time. I've placed all my pieces in their places and now all I have to do is wait.

I texted Tweek to make sure he'll be here tonight.

I ordered what I think should give myself away.

And...well... those are all the pieces I really have... I'm here aren't I? That counts as something.

"Vanilla milkshake." The waitress comes by and sets my milkshake on the table without missing a step.

Milkshakes in general are viewed in a healthy light. I agree, to an extent. The vanilla milkshake that is in front of me is no doubt better for me than a soft drink, but better than water, or a hot tea of sorts? Arguable.

Their main ingredient, milk, obviously wins in the calcium department. Usually milkshakes from restaurants though have twice as much sugar as necessary to make the drink delicious. Also, the ice cream is usually less than healthy, too. Even a restaurant boasting home-made milkshakes with home-made ice cream could raise a flag. Pair that with the extra toppings and mix-ins Howie's offers and you're basically taking ice cream and a candy bar, mixing it together with milk, and telling yourself you're drinking a healthy shake. Not the case, America, not the case.

When my plate of food comes out I can tell the waitress knows something doesn't match.

"You ordered a plain hamburger, didn't you?"

"I did."

"I don't know why they sent this out then," in her hands was a grilled chicken breast over rice and a vegetable medley on the side, "sorry about that I'll get it changed."

"Thank you, I appreciate it."

My heart is pounding as she walks back with the food. He knows. He knows I'm here. Let's just hope he doesn't hate me like I've been worrying about these past few days.

There's a ping from my phone. It's a notification letting me know that _ Cmft_ has started a game on Letters with People.

Eat

That's the word he plays. Vertically.

Nope

I play horizontally with his e.

His turn comes back just as fast.

Please

Horizontally. It's a cheap way to get double points. Using my p and shamefully accepting La and Et as words.

I don't have any letters I can keep this conversation going with, so I end the game. The Kyle that walked in here weeks ago would have been hands shaking at such a bold move. End all to end all. This is it, Kyle. Will _ Cmft_ reveal himself to an already suspecting world (just me) or will he hide and I'll never talk to Craig again?

I glance into the kitchen area and see steam and rushing bodies walk by the ordering window. Howie's is a lot busier than the first time I came in, so maybe Craig really can't come out to talk like before. Maybe he wants to, but if he does his job will be compromised? What if he takes that chance and ends up unemployed? I can't be the cause of raising the unemployment rate in Colorado! Even by a tenth of a percent!

So instead of sending Craig a text message like a normal human being, I start creating games with _ Cmft_, looking for the right combination of letters to form some sort of an apology. The chances of getting the five letters I need out of the seven they give you are probably less than marrying your high school sweetheart.

I opt for starting a game the same way Craig did moments before (the chances of getting an e, a, and t are much greater than a y to begin with).

"Eat."

Craig has beaten me. Again.

There he stands, plate of grilled chicken, rice, a vegetables in hand.

He's right where I want him. This has been the plan all along. Coax him out with a plain order and word play (hah...). This is my moment. I am in control of this. It's now or never. It's all you, Kyle. Craig is right in front of you, command him to sit so you two can talk things through.

"I'm s-sorry."

I'm not threatened. I'm not. The stutter was because... there was a draft... yeah, a gust of cold air that passed us. No emotional or mental connection at all to this situation.

Craig has the top half of his apron pulled down, his long sleeves rolled up. He sets the plate in front of me and takes a seat opposite of me. "Sorry for calling me Stan, not talking to me for two days, or not eating the food I made for you?"

How did he gain control so quickly of this conversation?

That damn stutter.

"All three?" He pushes the plate closer towards me and motions to pick up my fork, "well not so much the third option."

Craig takes my fork and knife and pulls the plate closer to him. He begins cutting the meat into some pretty even cubes. It's like he knew how many chicken cubes make up this stupid chicken breast.

Once he's finished he scoops some rice onto the fork, stabs a carrot and ends the bit with a chicken cube. I think he's about to bring it to his mouth when instead the bite is so close to my face, my eyes go crossed trying to keep up with it.

"The third option is the only option you need to be sorry about." He urges the fork towards my lips.

I back up a little, feeling suffocated by the bite, "I'm being serious, Craig."

"Me too."

"You're not at all upset about me calling you Stan? About me freaking out, and well, whatever else happened that night?"

He rests the fork on the plate, "I got called Stan a lot in high school, I get called Ruby by my grandma, my dad even calls me by my dog's name sometimes. Slip of the mind," he points to my head, careful to make sure I know it wasn't his mind that did the slipping.

"It was your party, you could freak out if you wanted to." I understand his play on words, but that still did not make me feel any less embarrassed about it. He goes on.

"You seem to forget what else happened that night, I got to punch Stan Marsh in front of a crowd and not get in trouble for it. I might have gotten a little vomit on my shoes, but it was worth it. I should be thanking you."

I can't hide my laughter.

"Overall, I'd say good party." Craig tries again for the bite of food on the fork. He picks up the fork and reinforces the chicken cube at the end.

"About not talking to you for the past few days-"

"I figured I might have come on a little too strong," Craig places the hand holding the fork under his chin thoughtfully, "but I wasn't upset about it."

"What do you mean?"

"It was obvious I was playing you in Letters with People, I was just waiting for you to make the connection. And when you showed up here after I mentioned working here I figured you were a little curious as to who you were talking to. I was worried at first you were put off to see me here, but when something, or I guess someone," he points the fork in my direction, "comes along that could change your life for the better, why not take a chance?"

As the fork Craig's holding reaches it's original spot close to my lips I realized that Craig really isn't worried about what happened two days ago. He isn't worried about what happened two years ago, or even ten years ago in grade school. He doesn't need to conduct a study on how the world feels in order to understand how he's feeling or worry about the chances of our relationship.

I don't think I'll ever give up my studies and statistics on how many people prefer the color yellow over red, but when it comes to my own emotions there's no need to draw on outside sources.

Craig is right, sometimes you just have to take the chance, or in this specific instance, the bite.

The tenderness of the chicken breast pairs nicely with the sweetness of the carrot and texture of the rice.

AN: Wow. This took me forever to finish. This is it. The end. I'm not great at endings or romance, which is why most of my stories end feeling unfinished, but I like leaving the end a little open like that.

Thank you to anyone and everyone still reading this story. All of your comments and favorites and follows really encouraged me to keep writing this. I'd like to think one day I'll start writing South Park fics again more often. Anyway, thank you thank you thank you and sorry it took me almost three years to write such a silly little story.