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The heart wants what it wants, and sometimes it wants Chili Cheese Tots and Cherry Limeade, and sometimes the heart is dashed on the concrete dividers of a strip mall parking lot.

The other day, three very large men in a very small car rolled up behind the Sonic Drive-In in Aurora. The smell of tar was pungent. In nearby fields little yellow flags from new developments flapped in the wind. The largest of the men, in the passenger seat, with a stomach so vast and gelatinous it rested on the dashboard as if taking a lunch break, rolled down his window. His right arm hung over the window lip like a dead goose. "You people open yet?" he asked. Sonic general manager Ray Mejia shook his head. "Tuesday," he said. The man slapped his palm hard against the metal of the car door. "The 19th," Mejia said.

It has been like this for weeks, since Sonic, the first in the Chicago area, Sonic No. 3,456 in the 55-year-old Oklahoma-based carhop chain, began showing signs of life—since its teenage trainees began learning how to roller-skate in the parking lot while balancing trays of milkshakes and the pavement was power washed and the new employees began eating lunch on the patio overlooking Kirk Road and strolling out back for smoke breaks or sneaking over to Starbucks. It opens tomorrow. For weeks, however, the line of cars has not stopped, the potential customers not ceased; they slow, beg for food, ask when, what day, what time—now? "This is craziness," Mejia said, and turned to meet the SUV that replaced the car of large men. "The 19th," he said.

Next car.

"The 19th," he said.

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