“Welcome to delicious!” a blue-suited girl at the cash register called out robotically. The door slammed shut behind us, but, as soon as the next customers pulled it open, she flashed a smile and mechanically called out the same nonsense again.
We stared up at the lighted menu sign, which listed the same catalog of offerings as every other outpost of this company. We ordered two meals whose appeal lies in their consistency–in tasting almost exactly the same every time. That’s comforting.
In the ladies’ room, where there used to be a sink or two, I find a trough. I associate this style of convenience with livestock, and it further communicates my status as an integer. Efficiency has shouldered its way into this female precinct, banishing any lingering notion of personal privacy. Standing in front of a trough more or less destroys the point of glancing into a mirror.
