It was February. It was raining cats and dogs. John was a tall man. John was 36 years old. He had never been married. He worked as a dishwasher. Every night for the last eight years, John would enter McDonalds at six p.m. with a Chicago Sun-Times under his left arm. McDonalds was his Paris. He owned a Casio watch. Black with a calculator. He'd only had to replace the battery once. Each night he was greeted with a tip of the visor from the manager. The manager had been there longer than John could remember. Scott was five feet eight inches tall and had a goatee. Scott would tip his hat each night at 6:02. John and Scott never spoke. The weather was not mentioned. John didn't care for Scott because his pants were never ironed. John would step to the register at 6:03 and order his meal. The number three. The two cheeseburger meal without onions. Onions gave him gas. A large black coffee instead of a soft drink. A cup of water and two apple pies.

At 6:09, his tray of food was placed on the counter. He would remove the burgers from the wrappers and analyze. Analyze for traces of onions. John would take two sips of coffee and head to his seat. The fourth booth by the window, street side. John would sit at 6:11.

His Chicago Sun-Times stayed under his left arm until his number three was finished.

The blue sleeve would be on until after dinner. He couldn't risk any stains.

John people-watched for 23 minutes everyday while he ate his meal. He ate crispy fries and starred at the passersby. A guy walked his poodle. An old lady chatted with an old man. A young guy wore baggy pants and talked on his cell phone. A bus driver honked.

This was the third time in a month that John had witnessed a near collision with a bus.

The CTA driver was in the wrong. He hadn't checked his mirrors. The driver was fat and had a mustard stain on his uniform. His shirt wasn't ironed, and he wore black driving gloves. John hated this man. Only a slob would wear a shirt with wrinkles. A lady with "princess" stamped on her ass walked past. She wore heels. He became erect. Her ass was a plump peach. A ripe tomato. Tracey was watching. She was always watching. He glanced over at Tracey. Tracey was a looker, except for that mole with one long strand of hair growing from it. John focused on her mole. The princess had passed.

Tracey had been coming to McDonalds as long as John could remember.

Six years. Tracey stared at his creased pants. Her hairy mole pulsated. His erection subsided. A tall man six-foot four-ish, crossed the street. He leaned on a light pole. He pulled out a pack of smokes from his jacket pocket. A navy blue coat with a stain on the left sleeve. His pants were tight. His junk showed through. His left foot tapped against the sidewalk. He finished and flicked out his smoke and moved from John's view.

A young boy pressed his face against the window pane. He studied Tracey's mole.

And looked directly into John's whites. He puffed out his cheeks and stuck out his tongue.

His mother slapped him on the back of the head. John finished his last two fries and, at 6:34, he headed for the bathroom to wash his hands.

He unzipped and contemplated public masturbation. He washed and looked at the primitive carvings on the mirror. Scribbles. He scratched his skull. His paper hadn't left his left arm. The bathroom door swung open. Scott entered the stall nearest the sink.

The cleaner of the two. The door locked, and his pants sagged to his ankles. John watched his foot tap to an unfamiliar beat. John paused and opened the door. The handle was greased over with prints. He stepped back into the dining room at 6:38.

He sat down at 6:39. He removed the blue sleeve and watched Tracey fiddle with her bracelet. A turquoise bracelet. He turned his head and eased off the sleeve. Tracey coughed and her hairy mole blew in the wind. The blue sleeve was folded and used as a coaster for his now lukewarm coffee. John licked the tips of his fingers and proceeded with the day's news. Tracey picked at her mole.