Bottomless

Theresa parked her Hyundai in the first open spot she could find. She’d gotten the Elantra in magenta, remembering how she’d always admired the jocks and preps in high school for their red sporty cars; she peered at the newly washed sedan’s reflection in the windows of the deli. In anticipation of this meal, she had not eaten breakfast, and her belly was slightly rumbling as she unplugged her phone from the dash and put the contents of her purse in order.

It was her first Friday off work in ages, and as her kids were in school and her husband Jack at work, she had a rare opportunity to do only exactly what she wanted to do and not have to worry about anyone else’s preferences, allergies, schedules, quirks, or personalities. She’d been thinking about it all week. She wanted to start the day with a really good latte from Starbucks. She never got to go there because her husband thought it was “too corporate” and said if they were going to spend ten dollars on coffees, they should support a local company instead. A fine sentiment, but what really ended up happening was that they just never got coffee anywhere, because the only local place he liked was only open on weekends and she just couldn’t deal with the look of disapproval he gave her when he saw the branded plastic cup. Sometimes she’d get the Starbucks anyway, but then she would inevitably leave the cup in the car holder instead of throwing it away. He always noticed.

Sighing, Theresa gazed at the cup holder, which now held a ludicrous ceramic mug. She’d gotten a late start this morning. Instead of sneaking out of the house before Jack had gotten out of bed and the kids had gone off to school (she had two teenagers and they usually caught the bus), she had hit the blasted snooze button too many times and gotten her schedule all messed up. She never meant to do that, but Theresa-asleep made much worse choices than Theresa-awake. Theresa-awake hated that bitch. By the time she’d showered and found some clothes that made her look casual, stylish, not too frumpy, but not too sexy (she hadn’t been hit on in public in twenty years, but Jack still hated it when she was too provocative), it was nearly nine o’clock. Jack had made a full pot of coffee and left her a post-it note stuck to a ceramic to-go tumbler with the words “Live Life Fit” on the front. “Love you babe, made you a to-go cofee, can you get some chiken for tonight pls” was scrawled in hurried inky letters. Theresa stared at that post-it for a full minute before crumpling it up and throwing it away. He was sweet, really. He didn’t understand that she’d had it all planned out. It wasn’t his fault. She poured her coffee and decided to just have it black. Her cholesterol was too high for creamer anyway.

She’d taken her bitter coffee with her into Target; she’d stopped in before going to the deli, as she had about an hour and a half before the lunch counter opened and she had been saving some secret shopping cash. There were eight twenty-dollar bills stashed in her wallet that she’d been pigeon-holing away, unnoticed by Jack, for about the last three months. If it was in cash he wouldn’t notice how much she spent all in one go and there wouldn’t have to be the inevitable budgetary conversation about “wants versus needs” and she wouldn’t feel the need to rationalize buying yet another throw blanket for the couch. “Why do you always buy so many blankets?” Jack had asked her once. She didn't have a good answer for that. She liked them because they were cozy and snuggly and made her feel safe, but she knew he wouldn’t be satisfied with that answer, so she’d told him that it was just a home decorating thing. He’d gone on and on about how their home was already plenty decorated and she’d promised to cut back. This had left her second-guessing her purchases, wondering which ones would spark an argument. She hated explaining why she bought things - didn’t everyone just feel better when they shopped?

She put a candle that smelled like lavender in her cart, mentally deducting one of her twenties. When she was in college candles cost like four dollars; two hundred bucks would have meant a cart full of candles, clothes, and whatever she wanted for the house. Today she’d be lucky to get through the line with half a dozen small token items. All the other shoppers were annoying her today, too. The carts at Target were ridiculously large and it seemed like every inconsiderate middle-class mom she’d ever known was there, and they all knew one another. They’d park their carts in the middle of each aisle so as to stop and swap photos on their phones. 

Theresa turned her cart in a wide arc down the jewelry display and encountered a tall woman talking on her phone with her cart wedged horizontally across the entire pathway. She had never been the confrontational type, preferring instead to drive her cart down the aisle and stop as close behind the offender as it was possible to get before touching them. Then she would just wait, staring. “Oh, sorry!” is what they always said once they noticed her, with a little giggle while getting a move on. Theresa knew she was supposed to say it’s okay, but she never did. Her mom had taught her to never tell lies.

She picked out a few more items – makeup, perfume, candles, and a coffee cup that said “Boss Babe” (she wasn’t anyone’s boss but she loved to think that at home her kids thought of her as the CEO) and rounded the corner to the checkout stands. Most women Theresa’s age seemed to love the self-checkout but she loathed it. She always ended up with a sticker-less item or some other issue that would cause her to have to wait for help. Theresa did not want to be helped with something she could do her damn self. So she always opted for the regular checkout, even if the line was longer. Today, the line was very long, but she had another half hour before lunch so that was OK. She maneuvered her cart behind a young-looking couple with what looked like a couple weeks’ worth of groceries and pulled out her phone to scroll Facebook.

A text message popped up. “MOM, CAN U GET ME SOME EYELINER FROM TARGET WHILE YOUR THERE” and a gif of a bear drawing a heart. Theresa immediately turned back and went to the makeup aisle, where she picked up the item. She stopped for a second and looked at the price. Sure, she could run the card for this, but how much had they put aside this month for extras for the kids? She couldn’t remember, and it was the end of the month. Jack would be irritated if she went over again. She had a moment of panic. She was running out of time to get to the deli and the checkout lines were long, and she couldn’t remember how much she’d calculated that she would need to save back for lunch. Inwardly, she could feel the panic attack approaching. She closed her eyes. Not here. She abandoned her cart, took the makeup to the self-check, and prayed inwardly as it rang through. No issues. She paid using one of her twenties and rushed to the car, breathing through the panic, but no adrenaline rush hit, her heart did not race, and she was able to continue on. 

Twenty minutes later, she was parked in front of the deli and listening to her stomach rumble. Nobody else in her family ever came here. Jack thought the place far too expensive and so Theresa saved it for special lunches with friends. They had patio tables where you could order overpriced salads served with large pickles, cookies as big as your fist, and best of all bottomless mimosas. Theresa craved those mimosas. They weren’t an alcohol-drinking family and Jack really didn’t like her to partake, but Theresa excused herself at this place, because the drinks seemed to be mostly orange juice anyway (never mind how many she’d order). The deli was extremely popular and they only had twelve tables. Despite their long lines, they did not take reservations, which inevitably led to grumbling and annoyance by anyone not familiar with their setup.. She knew that in order to get herself a table she would have to arrive early and be one of the first in line. There were already other cars filling up the parking lot. She got out of the car and lingered by the door, to make her claim. The other patrons waited in their cars, but no matter. She was determined.

At 11:01, a waitress came and unlocked the door. Theresa didn’t smile at her as she walked to the counter. After all, they’d been late opening and should have expected that her customers might be grumpy about that. The menu was the same as last week. Theresa was first in line and ordered a Greek salad and bottomless mimosas. She looked around the patio as the line behind her quickly accumulated, and chose the perfect table – a short four-top right near the door. She could watch the other patrons as they arrived. She settled into her chair and pulled a book from her bag, which she had plopped right onto the table across from her setting. Theresa had never been the kind of person who was self-conscious about eating alone. In fact, she rather preferred it to eating with her family. Her kids had a nasty habit of chewing with their mouths open (she had been trying and trying for their whole lives to get them to stop, but Jack did it too, and so she found it almost impossible to quelch the trait) and she tended to rush when she ate with her family so she could help usher them on to the next activity. Today, she could take her time, and she intended to sit there and watch the line grow while she took space at the table.

It took Theresa forty minutes to eat her meal. She sat and read and listened to the customers in the growing line grumble about the wait and lack of seating. “Oh no, there’s no tables left,” they would say as they arrived, looking around. Theresa would take a sip of her mimosa as the conversation inevitably dipped to a whisper. She knew they were scouting, judging which tables would be getting up soon. She pulled her reading glasses out of her purse and set the case down on the table, flipping to a new chapter in her book. She wasn’t reading. She was enjoying listening to the disappointment of the patrons as they took in the length of the line and the lack of space. From her table, she could hear a woman complaining at the register about it. The poor counter girl was flustered but just shrugged in the way you do when the situation can’t be helped. What a Karen, Theresa thought. Maybe next time she’ll get here early. She took a bite of her cookie. 

By the time Theresa had sat there for fifty minutes, the line to order was out the front door. A waiter came by her table and pointed to her plate. “Do you want a to-go box for this?” he asked pointedly, and looked over at the line as if to make it clear why he was asking. The other patrons that had arrived at the same time as her were already gone, and their tables were now filled with new parties. 

Theresa took her time answering. “Hm, no – I don’t think I’m going to take it home. But I will take another mimosa please.” The waiter looked annoyed but nodded. When he brought her the drink, he was carrying her ticket. “I’m going to drop this off here. You can pay me when you’re ready.” Usually they said, “no rush” but he left that line off today. She just nodded and smiled, sipping the bubbly drink which tasted like happiness and victory. There was a group of gals in line who looked about twenty, and one of them turned and whispered in her friend’s ear, looking directly at Theresa’s table. But all Theresa did was smile, pack up her purse, and lay her remaining twenties down on the table with the check.