Daren lived on the crimson bench by the ketchup dispenser, in his wrinkled gray t-shirt bearing the logo of a quietly perfect band. People wondered where he got his money from to pay for all the endless piling of cheeseburgers, the undying mountain of fries, but he mostly stayed silent and watched too much Hulu, took cat naps, and secretly fell in love with the man who opened the doors each morning and knew his order by heart.
The truth was, he had won the lottery a year ago, an impressive sum he didn’t dare to even write down, and he planned to lead a humble life supporting his favorite fast food establishment in the most unobtrusive of ways. Every morning before the sun tipped over the plains in the little Iowa town, he’d roll off the couch he slept on in the tiniest of houses and run past the seemingly eternal rows of corn fields until he came to his favorite restaurant. There he would stay, with his backpack and unspoken opinions, until last night when a girl with freckles sat in the same booth as him, curiosity overflowing her need to politely leave him alone. Her long dirt-brown braid fell out from under a fisherman’s hat and she carried a small camera of people’s faces that meant something to her. Her name was Emily, and she asked where he came from. Daren was from Massachusetts, of course, but he was in so much shock at having a conversation, he simply pointed to the corn fields out the west window. They sat there in silence, as she tried to figure out his story by the constellation of freckles on his face, but freckle constellations are a tricky business, and eventually she gave out and asked why he was sitting there. (She’d seen him yesterday, and every Wednesday that March, but it’s difficult to say this without sounding like some type of investigative agent.) He told her that he really just like watching outdated Saturday Night Live shows, so she joined him, and bought the next round of curly fries.
from my freshman year byu creative writing class, one of my all time favorite groups of people