McDonald’s, McDonald’s, Kentucky Fried Chicken, and Alicia’s Butt

Just savour the flavours waiting at your door

Fridays, I don’t cook. It started as a bad habit, but it’s become a comforting routine. I work hard all week, I exercise, and I eat well, but on Friday evenings, I indulge my one vice: fast food. Lazy fast food, at that. The thing is, I don’t like going out. I work from home, my gym is my home, and I buy everything online. So on Fridays, I use Doorstep Kitchen, and someone bikes round whatever junk I’m in the mood for.

A couple of months ago, I was in the mood for a Big Mac. I often am: I take out the pickles, but otherwise they’re perfect for a greasy, guilty Friday night. So I ordered one, and it changed my life.

My phone tells me ‘Alicia’ is six minutes away. I’m always anxious when I’m waiting for a delivery, because I’ll be opening the door to a stranger, but when they send a woman it’s less stressful. Or more, if she’s hot.

When I open the door, my stress level skyrockets. Alicia is gorgeous. She’s exactly my type: a skinny brunette with long hair and a mischievous smile. And she smells so… edible: she’s got a kind of vanilla-coconut thing going on. Somehow I manage to take my burger and say thanks without making a fool of myself.

Then she turns to leave, and I fall in love. She’s perfect. She hasn’t got an inflated, Kardashian-style ass like the Insta models I plan to spend the evening drooling over. Her butt is in a different league: small and tight, with lycra shorts hugging every curve and the kind of iron-hard, nutcracker thighs you only get from cycling. A lot of cycling.

I watch her walk back down the corridor, then panic and slam the door, because she’ll turn round when she gets in the lift, and she’ll see me staring.

She doesn’t catch me. She probably heard me slam the door, though.

Another Friday, another Big Mac. My heart has a little happy panic when I see ‘Alicia is six minutes away’ again.

She’s still perfect. Unfortunately, I’m still socially awkward, and a woman I’m crushing on is being professionally polite to me, so of course I try to hit on her.

“Ha, ha. This is the second McDonald’s you’ve brought me. I’ll have to be careful or it could turn into a song.”

She looks at me like I’m speaking Latin. “I don’t get it?”

“McDonald’s, McDonald’s? You know, I think of you and lick my lips? You’ve got the taste I can’t resist… Sorry! It’s just lyrics! To the song? The fast food song? I wasn’t flirting! Sorry.”

I didn’t lie: I really wasn’t flirting. I was trying to, but I failed.

A Big Mac is less appetising when even your taste buds are cringing.

Paul delivered my burger the next Friday, and I cheated on McDonald’s with Ajit’s Whopper last week.

But the universe likes to embarrass me, so tonight, when I ordered Kentucky Fried Chicken for a change, kismet sent me Alicia.

She grins when I open the door. “KFC? Really? It’s a pity we don’t have a local Pizza Hut for next time. I’ll have to bring you something from Mozza’s instead, and that wouldn’t be the same.”

“You do know the song!”

“I do now. I had to google your ‘lick my lips’ line,” she shows me that mischievous smile again, “I couldn’t resist.”

“It wasn’t a line! I’m sorry if I sounded like I was trying to flirt.”

“Hey, I don’t mind. At least you’re pretty. You wouldn’t believe some of the losers who hit on me.”

“Great. I’m one of the pretty losers.”

“I didn’t mean that! You’re not a loser! You’re okay. I meant the sad guys, the ones who think every woman in a service job is just waiting for a magic dick to free them from the gig economy. They boil my piss. But you’re fine.”

“Well, I’m sorry anyway. I’ll add another tip for you before I eat, you know, as an apology for flirting. I mean, trying to. Sounding like! For sounding like I was try— ”

She thrusts the KFC bag at me. I think she’s hoping to put me out of my misery, but she just deepens it, because she doesn’t let go when I grab the handle. My hand is touching hers, and my brain dissolves completely. If she doesn’t leave, right now, I’m going to say something stupid. More stupid.

I lock my lips, and let her talk.

“You don’t need to apologise, Wendy, but I’ll accept it. You’re now officially my favourite customer and you can flirt with me any time, as long as you always apologise generously.”

She knows my name! Is she stalk — No, wait, she got it from the app. Of course she did.

I won’t watch her walk away again, I’m better than that. I’ll just glance at her butt. Once. Until she reaches the lift.

Did I subconsciously lick my lips when she said ‘generously’? Fuck! I think I did.

And what did she mean when she called me fine? Was she…?

No. No, she just meant I wasn’t a loser, I was okay. And that’s… fine. I’m not a cheap loser, I’m a half-way decent human. It’s a low bar, but at least I meet it.

But what if she meant fine?

I don’t go out. I don’t go clubbing, or to parties, so I never dress up for anything, and I definitely don’t ‘flaunt it’, on the dancefloor or anywhere else. I don’t know how to.

But I follow a lot of Instagram girls who do.

I wanted to look good next time Alicia delivered to me. I wanted to look fine. There was nothing in my closet that any self-respecting Insta model would wear, but I’ve got a light cardigan I usually wear over a t-shirt. I tried it without a top, tying it under my bra. It might have looked good on someone who owned lingerie, but not on me.

I was about to try something else when a little voice told me to take my bra off. I don’t usually listen to my little voice, because she hates me, but I went with it.

I looked terrible. I was showing way too much midriff — like, all of it! — and my breasts looked as though they’d fall out any second. It was pure cringe. I was untying the cardigan when my little voice told me the truth: You’d think it was hot if Alicia was wearing it.

I decided to wear it. I babble when I talk to her anyway, so maybe if she was staring at my boobs she wouldn’t even hear whatever nonsense I was saying.

I had to wear that stupid cardigan every Friday night for six weeks before she came.

I’ve eaten artisan pizza five weeks in a row, hoping to see ‘Alicia is six minutes away’. I am so bored of pizza. I leave it until the last possible delivery time, then order the same fourteen-inch from Mozza’s I always get. And I wait.

Alicia is six minutes away

Yes! God, I’ve missed her. I probably shouldn’t tell her that, though. That would be weird.

When I open the door to her, my breasts almost spilling out, I see her eyebrows flick up briefly, but she looks me straight in the eye as she holds out the box.

“Pizza. No hut.”

“Thanks, Alicia. I missed you. Shit! Sorry, I just meant… I wasn’t flirting!”

She shrugs. “Hey, you can flirt if you want to.”

“You’re just hoping for another big tip.”

“Nah. I’ve always been uncomfortable with big tips. Or small ones, even. I’m just not that kind of girl. There are better ways to apologise.”

I’m reading too much into that. I know I am. I must be.

But what if I’m not?

“When do you get off, Alicia? Sorry! That sounded… I just meant, when do you finish work?”

“This is my last delivery. I’m done for the night.”

“Would you… Sorry, no, you probably have plans — ”

“Yeah. My plan is to go straight home. Where I live. Alone. I’ll microwave some ramen, then go to bed. Alone.”

“Would you… I mean you could, if you wanted to… Sorry, I’m not making any sense.”

“Take a breath, Wendy. It’s okay.”

I breathe, deeply, and she’s right: it is okay. “Would you like to share my pizza? It’s a hot’n’spicy. Vegetarian.”

“They say you are what you eat. Is that true?”

“No, I’m not vegetarian. I just thought you might be, and I didn’t want to order something you couldn’t share.”

“You are such a dork! It’s adorable. I meant the hot and spicy part.”

“Oh! So do you…?”

“Will my bike be safe outside for a while?”

“Sure, you could leave it there overnight and it would… Shit! I didn’t mean like, overnight overnight.”

“Yeah, but I did.”

I’m sitting next to Alicia, eating pizza. She’s on my couch. Alicia is on my couch, close enough to touch.

My couch is my comfort zone. I’m so much more confident here.

“Fair warning, Alicia: I’m hungry to the bone.”

“That’s okay, I’ll only eat one slice.”

“No, have half! There’s plenty. But… I might like to eat something else later.”

She smiles at me, and my heartstrings melt like mozzarella. “Everything’s on the menu, Wendy. But brush your teeth first, eh? I’m on my bike again tomorrow and the last thing I need tonight is jalapeño anywhere sensitive.”