It All Happened on South Street One Night… by Shannon Frost Greenstein

Punk Noir Magazine

You can’t just order cheese,I say.

Of course you can,he says.

It’s seriouslytacky,I say.Especially ifyou’re bringing in another restaurant’s food to dip inthecheese,I say.

We are lounging in line at the Taco Bell at 6thand South. It is late, very late; we’ve been engaged in all manner of nefariousSaturday-night activities. Wewere already on our way home when my fiancéexpressed asudden craving he simply could not ignore,something thatwasfundamentally– according to him, anyway– an urgentneed in his lizard brain.

Knowing my fiancé, this could only mean steak fries with cheese sauce, and hence wefindourselves at the South Street Taco Bell holding a greasy paper bag and, apparently, planning to place an order for cheese. Just cheese. Just a lot of cheese.

This is embarrassing,I comment.

It’s fine. They probably get asked for much stranger things here.

Knowing South Street, this is a likelihood. I stare out the windowandwonder vaguelywhat Man with Snake…

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