It’s fast food, not fine dining.
But some people, it seems, never got the memo.
For the past few weeks, they’ve been here.
I’ve been calling them the PDA couple.
The Regular Romance Show
It was supposed to be a quick lunch break.
That’s what I loved about this place—simple food, no frills, just enough of a hum in the background to drown out the world.
But they were here again.
I noticed them as soon as I walked in, huddled at their usual table near the soda fountain.
The same couple I’d been seeing almost every week lately, radiating a level of affection that should’ve been reserved for a private anniversary dinner, not a greasy fast-food booth.
I sighed and grabbed my food, finding a table far enough to escape but close enough to observe.
I couldn’t help it—they were impossible to ignore.
Over the past few weeks, I’d watched them escalate from slightly irritating to full-blown obnoxious.
At first, it was just a few giggles and whispered sweet nothings.
But now? Now it was practically performance art.
Today, it was all on display: the loud, smacking kisses that seemed to echo off the walls, the exaggerated “Here comes the airplane!” as he fed her fries, the cringy pet names—“Snugglebear” and “Honeybuns” being the highlights.
I wasn’t the only one noticing.
Across the room, a mother wrangled her squirming toddler, casting side-eyes at the couple between sips of her drink.
A group of students at a corner table whispered and stifled laughs, their gazes darting toward the PDA like moths to a flame.
Fries, Sighs, and Side-Eyes
Halfway through my burger, their antics escalated.
“I love you more than ketchup loves fries,” the man announced, loud enough for the whole room to hear.
The woman squealed, swatting at his arm. “You’re so cute! No, I love you more than ketchup loves fries!”
Across the room, a group of teens let out muffled snorts. One of them mimicked his line, earning a round of quiet giggles.
I took another bite, trying to tune them out, but it was impossible.
She had started feeding him again, holding a fry just out of reach and teasing him like he was a toddler.
“Come on, Snugglebear, say ‘ahhh!’”
He leaned forward dramatically, opening his mouth wide as if this was a romantic comedy and not a fast-food joint.
As if on cue, the toddler at the next table began mimicking them.
He held up an imaginary fry to his stuffed animal and made exaggerated smacking noises. “Mwah mwah mwah!”
His parents tried to hush him, but the damage was done. A ripple of laughter spread through the restaurant, though the couple seemed completely oblivious.
I couldn’t help but watch as they leaned in for another loud kiss, their tray dangerously close to the edge of the table.
Something about the way it teetered made me sit up a little straighter.
It was like watching a train inch toward the edge of a cliff.
You know it’s going to go over—you just don’t know when.
The Fry Fiasco
The moment was inevitable.
It had been building like a poorly balanced Jenga tower, each kiss, giggle, and fry-fed moment nudging it closer to collapse.
The man dipped a fry into an oversized glob of ketchup, holding it up dramatically.
“For you, my darling,” he said, leaning across the table.
The woman leaned in, her eyes fluttering shut like they were recreating the kiss from The Notebook.
And then it happened.
The fry slipped from his fingers, smearing ketchup across her cheek and blouse.
She froze, her mouth hanging open in horror. “Seriously?” she shrieked, her voice cutting through the hum of the restaurant.
“Babe, it’s fine!” he said, fumbling for napkins.
In his rush, he knocked the tray with his elbow.
It wobbled once, twice, and then tipped.
Fries and a full soda cup tumbled forward, splashing across the table and directly into his lap.
“Ah! It’s cold!” he yelped, standing abruptly.
His sneaker landed on a stray fry, the grease slick enough to send him stumbling backward.
He grabbed for the edge of the table, but his hand hit her drink instead. The cup toppled, splashing soda all over her lap and dripping onto her expensive-looking purse.
The room erupted in laughter.
Across the restaurant, the teens at the corner table clapped, howling with delight.
The toddler who had been mimicking them earlier laughed the loudest, smacking his hands on the table and shouting, “Uh-oh, Snugglebear!”
Even the mother who had been glaring at them couldn’t suppress a chuckle.
The man stood there, soaked and red-faced, while the woman frantically dabbed at her blouse with a wad of napkins.
“This is all your fault!” she hissed, her romantic cooing replaced with barely restrained fury.
“My fault? You’re the one who—”
“Don’t start!” she snapped, cutting him off as she reached down to retrieve her soggy purse.
Fast Food, Faster Karma
The couple’s exit was nothing short of a walk of shame.
The guy hobbled toward the door, his soda-soaked pants sticking to his legs, while his partner stormed ahead, holding her dripping purse as far from her body as possible.
As they passed the toddler’s table, he waved enthusiastically. “Bye-bye, Snugglebear!” he chirped.
The dining room erupted into laughter once more. Even the staff at the counter were grinning, with Cashier Danny holding up a mop like a trophy.
As I stood to leave, I passed Cashier Danny, who leaned in with a smirk.
“Free entertainment, huh?”
I chuckled. “Worth every penny.”