Expire
Jonathan Arena
735 words ~ 3 minutes
Why does everyone bring food?
Sorry for your loss but I baked this. Your wife was wonderful—here’s some lasagna. Truly heartbreaking. She lit up every room she entered. Now try my meatballs. The sauce is a family recipe. Warm them in the microwave for three and a half minutes. Oh, no chest freezer? Well, it expires soon so eat up.
I gaze upon the final casserole beneath our wedding photo. Some meat, maybe potatoes? I stopped tasting yesterday but there is definitely cheese in it. Cheddar? I scoop another pile into my mouth and chew while staring at her smile. It seemed widest at the beginning.
Six days ago. The moment of impact. The moment of death.
My employer defines bereavement as short. My ass is expected in my seat on Monday. That’s tomorrow. Another spoonful. There is an ungodly amount of cheese in this dish. Is that a pepper? No—mushroom. Diced.
I swallow what cannot be chewed. My stomach churns violently but I keep it down. I keep it all down. The food, the years.
The phone rings but I ignore it. Leave a message, please. I only get up for the toilet but even that is becoming unlikely now. This is my graveyard. Who cares for a little piss and shit? There’s already plenty of vomit.
Another spoonful.
My eyelids grow heavy. I passed out here last night and the night before. Casseroles make decent pillows when there’s still one untouched to rest your head on. Now there are only a few more bites in this last one and glass dishes do not make good pillows. Maybe I can spread some of the cheese out or rest my head perfectly on this chunk because it will not spread. I push harder. Is it an olive? I eat it.
Yes! I taste the fucking olive. Not comfort, not relief, just knowledge.
My feet become bricks. My eyes flicker like dying neon signs for the insects to come party. They no longer scatter when I move.
I pass out and chase nightmares. My wife. My wife in a pool of blood. Red footprints outlining every mistake in our marriage.
Wake up!
Morning sunlight glares off the wedding photo. I turn away and vomit.
The phone rings but I ignore it. Leave a message, please. This time, they do. Bossman wondering where my ass is. Bereavement is short and there is an empty seat in the office where there shouldn’t be an empty seat. You have exactly one hour.
No—me. I have one hour.
My mind is buried in fog and my body is not responding to commands. For a moment, I confuse myself with other people before remembering there is no one else here. I don’t recognize myself in the wedding photo anymore but I do know one thing.
That this is my graveyard. This is where I belong.
I will, no doubt, disappoint my boss for dying instead of going to work. Perhaps a colleague will be saddened by the news or at least fight over who gets my chair. And my sister. She may care a little.
Another phone call. Another message. My sister does worry. She cares a lot, it turns out. More than I probably would have returned. More phone calls. More messages. An awful fart splits my stained trousers while a little vomit slides down my chin.
I’m loved.
The phone rings again but there is no message.
My muscles twitch. I press my palms against the floor but my arms buckle beneath me. It takes a long time before I manage to stand. One step at a time until my body flops into the pinkish tub. Cold water splashes against my face and I fumble for the spout until the bath turns to a shower. A little less drowning but my clothes soak while numbness creeps into every finger and toe. I turn off the water.
Was I certain that was the last casserole?
I crawl out of the tub and peel away my sopping clothes. Naked, I worm myself across the carpet to dry off. Bossman leaves another message. Five minutes!
I force limbs into dry clothes. Keys! Where are my keys? Wallet, shoes. Bereavement is short and there is an empty seat. My stomach twists in horrific pain. I rush back into the wet bathroom and never think about my wife again.
I slip.