It’s 8:30 at night and I haven’t eaten anything in hours. I’m starving. I hate having to eat. Where’s my Jetsons future with flying cars and one button push automated food delivery systems built into every home? Better still, where are the little fucking full meal pills I can toss back and force down with a few gulps of whatever liquid is handy?
It’s two days before pay day and my options are limited. The kale has wilted, the tomatoes have shriveled, the frozen meals are reserved, it’s too hot for soup, and the almond milk must be preserved for precious morning coffee. Light from the open frigerator door makes my eyes water. The eerie after storm glow is filtering in through the blinds casting the rest of my usually cheery kitchen in a yellow-hued and dust mote filtered wash. The effort required to flip the light switch on is too great.
Too much idle time has passed. The volume of the waves are ramping up, the thundering of each heart beat like a physical manifestation.
This day, crash.
This week, crash.
These months, crash.
Suddenly conscious of the wafts of cool air, I’m snapped back.
Fuck, I’m starving.
I spy it on the counter as I turn from slamming the refrigerator door shut. A loaf of bread lies half hidden under a week’s worth of mail never opened, but dutifully brought in from the box. Where there’s bread, there’s hope. Other ingredients assembled I am crestfallen when I spy the tag. Mockingly it reads, “sell by JUN 07”. A fleeting, suspicious sniff reveals only a slightly sour smell. A quick inspection several slices deep shows no obvious signs of mold and at this I let slip a sigh of relief.
The understated peanut butter and jelly sandwich is – has been – will always be – a balm when I am soul sick and weary.