The first time Marcus saw the drive-thru window, he was four years old, strapped into the back of his mom’s rust-spotted sedan. The window seemed impossibly high—a glowing square of warmth and smell floating above a world of pavement and exhaust. He could just see the edge of a white paper bag being passed down, like manna from a fluorescent heaven.
Marcus handed her the coffee. Their hands didn’t meet cleanly—she was reaching up, he was reaching down, and the geometry was all wrong. drive thru window height
Low. To her, the drive-thru window was a counter you had to stoop for. To Marcus, it had always been a wall you reached up to touch. The first time Marcus saw the drive-thru window,
That explanation lasted about fifteen years. Marcus handed her the coffee
“What happened to him?” Marcus asked.
“Hold on,” he said. He stepped out onto the stool, bringing himself to the hearse’s window level. For the first time that night, he and a customer were face-to-face.
When the hearse rolled to the window, Marcus saw the driver was a woman about his age. She had silver rings on every finger and a tired, beautiful face. She also had to lean way down to see him.