I met this girl named Sally at an Iron Maiden concert and took her to a Waffle House off Peachtree after the show. Late night, early morning—we’d had so much beer it was all a bit hazy. Waffle House seemed like a cop out for a first date, but since it was the only place still open and I’d paid for Sally’s beers and tour T-shirt, I thought I’d earned the right to be a little sloppy. It wasn’t like I expected anything—she’d been pretty goddamn clear about going to the airport as soon as we got done eating—but I figured what the hell. We were both hungry, and I thought I might as well be a gentleman and pour plenty of syrup on her waffles because I’m a nice guy and, well, just in case.

I gotta be honest, things got shitty pretty quick. The Waffle House parking lot looked like a ghost town and gave me the creeps. Inside, the pasty griddle kid and two hags ragging the counter were doing their damnedest to put the grave into the graveyard shift. The place already smelled like cooking oil and cheap cigarettes and piss, so none of the workers batted an eye when we rolled in with the stench of stale beer, hot dogs, and second-hand pot smoke. I sat down with Sally on some bar stools at the counter and handed her a menu. Sally looked at the menu and handed it back. She said where she was from, they didn’t have Waffle House.

That’s odd, I said. Then I asked her, Where ya from?

Upstate New York, Sally said.

I said, Long way down to Atlanta. You must really like Maiden.

Sally said, Uh-huh.

So what’d ya do Upstate? I put my hands in my lap to keep from touching this place I’ve got on my neck below my Adam’s apple. It’s not too big, maybe the size of a raisin, but my doctor says I shouldn’t touch it. He says it’s not cancer but I should leave it alone. He says it’s called a sebaceous cyst.

Different gigs, Sally said. Art and stuff. Freelance mostly, but I get by. You?

I’m a teacher, I said. Full time.

Sally said, You don’t look like a teacher. She twirled her fingers in her hair, which had these cotton-candy-pink-and-blue highlights I really dug. What subject?

All subjects, I said, and sat up a little straighter. I’m a substitute. 

Huh, said Sally.

I didn’t care much for the opening band, I said. I tried to remember what they were called but had already forgotten. 

Sally shrugged. Meh.

I said, So you like waffles?

Sally said, Dunno. Never had one.

I said, Really? That’s crazy.

Sally said, I guess I’m just not a waffle kind of person.

I said, You’ll never know until you try.

When the grill kid, whose nametag said Doug, took our orders, I got each of us the All-Star Special: two fried eggs, cheese grits, sausage patties, raisin toast, and of course a fucking waffle. I ate all of mine plus Sally’s untouched waffle and grits. Sally picked at her sausage and took the rest to go. I paid the bill in cash. Come to find out, Doug the griddle kid wasn’t quite the deadbeat I’d assumed. He even gave us free coffee when I told him we’d just seen Maiden. He said he was originally from Augusta, had Rob Zombie’s face tattooed on his ass, and liked metal. He said the opening band was the shit. Sally said he was sweet and patted his hand. 

On the way to the airport in my Solara, I sipped my shitty coffee from the too-hot styrofoam and said, I thought you didn’t like the opening band.

Sally said, I changed my mind.

I said, Where’s my hand pat?

Sally said, I just met you.

I put on a mixtape with some real angry bangers by Megadeth and Exodus and Tool and didn’t say much after that.

Just after three AM, I pulled up to the South Terminal drop-off at Hartsfield-Jackson. I parked my car, flicked on the flashers, and touched Sally’s arm. Listen, I said. I don’t even have your number.

I’m not giving it, Sally said, pulling away.

I said, No sweat; here’s mine. I took a No. 2 pencil and yellow Post-It from the console, jotted down my number, and handed Sally the note. Sally handed it back. I said, Can we at least be Facebook friends?

Sally opened her door. I don’t want to miss my flight.

I said, Snapchat?

Sally said, Your palms are sweaty and that place on your neck is distracting, but I left you my sausage and toast. Then she got out of the car.

It took me a moment to realize what Sally meant, and by that time, she’d already gone. I watched her disappear into the crowd through the tall glass doors. On my stereo, which I’d never turned off, Dave Mustaine squealed and whined like a love-sick cat.

I exited the terminal and drove around until I found a Golden Pantry with all the lights off. There was a dead squirrel in the parking lot. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked. I dialed up the music and opened the doggy bag with Sally’s leftovers. The bag felt warm and moist between my legs and smelled good. I realized I was still hungry. I sat there in my car until the sun came up and ate all of it, thinking about music and teaching and my cyst. It was kinda peaceful, actually: head ringing from the music, ears swimming with the sound, watching the planes float up in pinpoints of bright red light.

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Header photography and artwork by Jordan Keller-Wilson