A Meal And An Existential Crisis

This story contains these sensitive topics,

Suicidal ideation,

Foul Language,

Substance abuse

My head bumps the bus window sharply, startling me awake. The glass is cold, and the night air outside has a bite to it. My headphones make my ears burn a bit, but I don't want to stop listening to music. I take my dirty blonde hair out of its ponytail and slip the elastic on my wrist.

The head bash has good timing though; it's my stop. I pick up my bag and step off. The short walk I spend going over my plan: eat, write my goodbye texts, take a bath, put on my favorite show, and take as many pills as I can swallow. I repeat it like a mantra. Just a few hours before I'm not a burden anymore.

The neon orange light of Panda Moon shines on me. This is the last time I'll see those lights. It almost makes me feel warm. I take a moment to enjoy the beauty of the light. I've never been an orange person, but it's especially pretty tonight.

My stomach growls, reminding me of why I'm here. Inside is busier than what I would have liked, but I can be patient today. I'm not missing my last meal. I get sat at a small two-person table, toward the front of the restaurant. Not my preference, but it will be fine. 

I watch my waitress rush around a bit, taking drink orders and dodging more people funneling in. She's doing her best to smile and ham up the customer service, but I can see the stress underneath. She must be new I think. I'm not sure, I've been too broke to come here. She finally turns my way and goes to hand me a menu. I gently put my hand up.

“I don't need it, a Mr.Spice please.”

“Alright, is it okay if I come back to take your food order, Ma’am?”

I nod yes, I don't want to interrupt her flow. I'm already thinking I'll tip her what's left in my bank account, only 50 dollars, less once I pay for my meal.

 No rush for me. Instead, I take out my phone and start trying to type my letters (texts?). Should I start by telling my brother not to come over, just call the cops, and then do all the sappy stuff? Or should that come after? But if he starts reading and freaks out then he won't see the endi-

“I'm sorry, I'm also by myself, would you mind me sitting here?” A woman's voice breaks my concentration. 

I look up at her. She has long black hair, her blue eyes contrast against it almost creepily. She's older than me, maybe 40s? I can feel my brain trying to place her for a few seconds before remembering she asked me a question.

She takes my momentary stare as a bit of apprehension, she flushes and continues.

“It's just easier for me to sit at a table than a booth, I've got a bad knee.”

I feel myself nod yes. Before my mom passed she also had issues with a bad leg. Hers were clotting issues though, but I'm not going to make this stranger explain her medical history. She sits opposite me. Placing her purse in her lap. I momentarily fear she can see my notes and set my phone face down.

She looks from my phone to me. Oh right, that usually would mean I would be open for conversation. But I don't want to talk, I quickly avert my eyes down to the table. Maybe she'll take a hint?

“Writing a story?” she smiles.

I feel myself freeze. Did she really see? Is she going to call the cops and have me admitted? I feel my heart start to pound.

“Your hand has pencil smudges.”

Oh oh right. Damn, she caught me not only not washing my hands yet, but also paranoid enough to almost have a panic attack. If she notices, she doesn't say anything.

“No. I was… drawing actually.” 

I was going to write my goodbyes then I started to worry about rotting before I was found.

“Oh! An artist! I do a little charcoal myself.”

“Yeah?” Why am I still talking? I don't want to talk. I want to order my food and do the rest of my plan. I'm so tired. But her accent reminds me of my dad. I haven't been home to Texas in so long, not since he died too.

“I have a small sketchbook with me, would you like to see?” she's asking as a courtesy, before hearing my answer she's already pulling the little black book out of her purse.

Despite myself, I lean closer. I like charcoal too, but I never have the time anymore. She turns it to me and flips through, they're still lives, people walking by, sitting at benches, on the train. In the corner, she has the minutes she took to sketch it. They're so fluid, the movement and life in them is impressive.

“Not professional by any means, but I do take pride in them.”

“They're beautiful” I almost whisper.

For the first time, I really look at her smile. It has a sort of crook in it that seems so familiar.

“Oh, you're buttering me up.” she chuckles as she sits back, stirring her drink a bit.

I take a sip of mine. Wait, when did we get these? Did the waitress walk by again?

“You're what? 24? 25? If you practice you'll surpass me in no time”

I smile just a bit. She's sweet and hopeful.

“I doubt that but you are good at guessing” I sigh absentmindedly

“What could I get you to eat?” Our waitress appears.

I'm starving so I waste no time.

“General Tso, steamed rice, crab rangoon, and egg drop soup, please” It isn't until I'm finished do I realize my unexpected guest and I spoke at the same time. Ordering the same thing. The waitress and her make no move to suggest that was out of the ordinary at all. She nods and goes off.

I turn to the stranger, a bit taken aback. She's distracted looking at how busy it's getting in here, it hasn't slowed a bit in... how long have we sat here?

“Kinda funny we got the same thing isn't it?” Am I the only one who found that odd?

“It is the best they have here” she chuckles as she puts back the book. Which to me, isn't wrong, but they have tons of other things most people would choose first.

“More packed than a can of sardines, aren't we?” she chuckles, diverting. That's something my brother says a lot too. We grew up poor, often with only one bed in the house. Being poor means being close. He's got a full house now too, two kids, a fiancee, and one bedroom.

“Yeah… busy as a couple of bees in spring.” I try my best at something my grandmother used to say. It feels odd on my tongue but makes me warm inside.

Her face lights up, catching on that I opened up a bit. I'm shocked to realize I'm enjoying this stranger's company somewhat.

“You know, that twang suits you. I didn't get mine back until I moved back home around your age, before then I was speakin’ like any city folk here.”

“Where are you from?” I tentatively ask.

“Texas, a little town called Port Isabel”

“Port Isabel is where I'm from, well, where my dad's from.”

“What a small world. She smiles, amused.

Before I can ask anything more, if she knew my family, if she and my dad maybe went to school together she brings my thoughts to a halt.

 “So what is a pretty young thing like you doing on a Friday night alone?” she takes another sip.

Crap. I didn't want the conversation to go this way.

“I'm… reserved.” I try to start.

“I see. When I was your age I was in the city alone too. All I had was my brother but he lived about 2 hours away.”

I blink in surprise.

“You were alone here?”

“Yes, It was quite a rough time. I had lost most of my family by your age, I didn't have enough money for school, I was in debt from taking care of my mother. All I had was my brother, but he was about to get married. I had friends but none of them close by.”

I stare at her again. That is… eerily similar to what I'm experiencing. No, actually that's exactly what's happening. I want to ask her what she did to keep going. If she also took care of her mom for so long her identity was fully just caretaker, how to mentally get out of that. How do I fend off the loneliness? I decide though that maybe she's just stronger than me. My eyes drop.

“I… Wow, that's honestly what I'm going through right now. The closest person to me is my brother but he is all the way in Ju-”

“Juliette” she nods knowingly.

No. 

This has got to be some kind of prank. Is she a therapist I tried talking to? Did some gossip somehow get back to that little Texas town and she happens to recognize me? She looks so familiar but my brain won't place her. I'm almost mad.

“I'm sorry, have we met before?” my voice taking on an almost angry tilt.

“Oh, my dear girl…. We will” She reaches over the table and softly caresses my cheek. My voice catches in my throat. I suddenly see my mother in her. Then her face changes subtly and it's my own, older, looking back at me.

“I… What?”

“You are so strong. I can't promise you this isn't going to suck. It's going to suck so bad some days you'll think you did the wrong thing tonight. But you'll endure. Did you forget what your grandpa used to tell you? From his navy days?”

I can't even speak. I'm trying so hard to process all of this that my head feels fuzzy.

She takes back her hand and leans over like she's telling me a secret.

“When you think you're done and can't do anymore, you can handle 60% more. Your brain just tells you to stop at 40%.”

Tears form in her eyes a bit.

“You can heal from so much more than this, find your place, pursue a passion.”

“But I'm so tired.” I hear myself whisper. Hot tears are running down my eyes.

“I don't know how to be someone that isn't relied on. I don't know how to take care of myself before someone else.”

She nods, tears on her cheeks too. 

“I know…. but you'll figure it out. You'll love yourself and find your resilience. You always have, you've just… Told yourself it was for them, my dear, strength cannot be transferred from one person to the other. It's in you. You just have to know you are worthy to love yourself.”

I can feel sobs coming, I barely hold them back. I wipe my eyes with the crappy napkin as my shoulders shake. I feel her stand.

“Wait! I-I have questions!” 

She smiles down at me she looks like she's going to fall apart as well.

“Then go find the answers”

She turns and in just a few seconds dissolves into the crowd. She walks so steadily I know then she doesn't have a bad leg. I contemplate running after her and take in a long slow breath to steady myself.

My head bumps the bus window sharply, startling me awake. The glass is cold, and the night air outside has a bite to it. My headphones make my ears burn a bit.

Hold the fuck on. I sit up. I was crying in my sleep. I sit in silence, processing the last few minutes. Trying to save every part of what I saw. Was it just a dream? A vision? Epiphany? The last desperate attempt my body is making so I don’t go through with it?

It's my stop. I pick up my bag, take my hair down, hair tie on my wrist. The few minute walk I'm nervous. Will I see her again? Will I wake up back on the bus? Go find the answers? 

My stomach growls. The light shines on me. Just like the dream. I glance around the restaurant. I don't see her. I look down at my food. It came faster than in the dream…

I make a decision then. To enjoy this food not because I'm making it my last, but just because I deserve a damn good meal. It's probably the best it's ever tasted.

I gather my bravery On the ride back to my crappy little apartment. It's late, I know there's not a high chance he'll answer. I stare at his number on my phone. Before I can talk myself out of it, I hit dial and put it to my ear.

Each ring echos in my mind

“Hello?”

I freeze a moment.

“Sis, everything alright?”

“I-I'm sorry” I can already feel the tears stinging my eyes again.

“What's wrong? Did something happen?”

“No, no I just… I need someone to talk to right now.” 

I can hear him sit down.

“Yeah Munchkin, I'm here for you”

That's all I need to believe right now.