French fries, check; ketchup, absent, but I left.  Mallory refused to eat fries sans ketchup, that meant she’d hand them over to me, albeit a little bit bitterly; she might ask me, didn’t you ask to make sure, and I’d just say I asked.  “Ketchup?”  I asked the scrawny girl at the counter, just to cover my lies so I wouldn’t feel bad, and she answered, “No, would you like some?”  but I was already out the door, waving my greasy hand behind my head, like it weren’t no big deal, with two fries mashed between my molars.


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