There’s a freezer in the McDonald’s basement, by Anya Keskar

I check again, scrolling through greasy fingerprints,
blue light reflecting off the tabletop’s waxy sheen.
No updates. No whisper of a return,
just corporate silence, just the same static menu,
unchanging, indifferent, unmoved by devotion.
The cashier shifts behind the counter,
leans on one leg, cracks gum between teeth.
She doesn’t know. None of them do.

But I remember.

I remember the first bite,
bread bending before ribs that aren’t ribs,
meat pressed into an idea of something whole,
soaking into my hands, thick, sticky,
like I could press my palms together and hold it forever.
Barbecue sauce curling in the creases of my knuckles,
the tang of pickles cutting through the weight,
onions sharp and white, scattering, slipping,
like they too knew this was fleeting.

It was real. It happened.
A whole season with it, a world where it existed,
where I could wake up knowing it was there,
waiting, reliable in its impermanence.
Like how summer feels endless
until you step outside one day
and the wind has shifted,
leaves already crisping at the edges,
the sky just a little too pale.

They say it’s seasonal. They say it’s special.
But special is just another word for something
you can’t have all the time,
something rationed, hoarded, dangled like a trick,
like a friend who only calls when they need something,
like someone who holds your face too gently,
whispers too softly, then disappears into the crowd,
leaving only the echo of your name in their mouth.

I glance up at the menu again,
as if the letters might rearrange themselves,
as if someone might come from the back,
wiping their hands on an apron, and say,
“Wait, I think we’ve got one left.”

They won’t. I know they won’t.

Still, I imagine it.
A paper-wrapped miracle, warm in my hands,
the weight of it pressing me back into myself,
anchoring, real.

I should leave. I should stop waiting.
But I sit, fingers tracing the edge of the table,
pressing into the plastic, wishing for indentations,
wishing for proof that I was here.

She sighs, tilts her head toward the kitchen,
vanishes behind the swinging door,
and for a moment, the universe holds its breath.

Then—
the creak of a fridge door yawning open,
the static pop of a glove snapping on,
footsteps, urgent, deliberate.

The cashier reappears, hands cupped like an offering,
a single paper-wrapped relic balanced in her palms.
“Lucky day,” she says, monotone,
like this is nothing, like I haven’t been waiting,
watching the days pass in mustard-yellow fluorescents,
the void of its absence widening.

I exhale. Nod too quickly.
Reach out, fingertips just brushing wax paper,
just feeling the warmth of it-

and then.

it slips.

A slow-motion tragedy,
gravity reclaiming what should have been mine,
the wrapper sighing open midair,
peeling back like a wilted flower,
a sacrament unraveling before it can be received.

The meat patty slaps against the tile,
a wet, hollow sound,
barbecue sauce blooming outward,
a Rorschach of longing, of almost, of never meant to be.

Pickles skid, rolling into shadows,
onions scatter like frightened birds,
the bun, once whole, now split,
one half rocking on its side, dizzy, lost.

The cashier clicks her tongue,
stares down at the wreckage.
“Damn,” she mutters. “That was the last one.”

I want to scream. Want to gather it up,
press it back together, reshape what was ruined,
convince myself it could still be whole,
still be salvaged, still be mine.

But I just sit back down.
Watch as she scoops it into a trash bin,
hands wiped clean,
already forgetting.

And I am alone again,
nothing in my hands,
nothing waiting for me.

I stare at the bin, at the crumpled wrapper,
the smear of sauce glistening under fluorescent light.
No one is watching. The cashier has moved on,
taking orders, laughing at something I can’t hear.

It’s still warm, probably.
Still the same sandwich I waited for,
still mine, if I want it enough.

I glance over my shoulder.
The fry machine hums, a milkshake whirs.
No eyes on me, no witnesses,

How low am I willing to go?