The minivan with the exhausted dad: window perfect. He rested his elbow on the sill like it was made for him. “Double cheeseburger, small fry,” he mumbled, and Marcus passed the bag without either of them stretching. Comfortable. Invisible.
“Sorry,” she said. “The suspension on this thing is shot. Sits even lower than stock.” drive thru window height
The ancient Cadillac with the couple in their eighties: window so low they had to reach up from inside. The woman’s hand trembled as she grabbed her milkshake. “They built these for trucks now,” she told Marcus. “In my day, you pulled up and looked a cashier in the eye.” The minivan with the exhausted dad: window perfect
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. Comfortable