Six compartments. Two mains, two sides, salad, and packet juice.
Neat. Tidy. Mediocre. But affordable.
It doesn’t taste bad either, although I feel it’s rather processed-organic. An oxymoron, food cannot be both processed and organic, both being contradictory. Eh, still feels processed-organic. Its multiple compartments are all square, each square holding its designated dish. Slowly lifting the spoon and fork (included with the box) I battle my way through the cold vegetables, mac n cheese, and sticky pudding. My fork sinks deep into pudding, resting. My lips taste the plastic straw, juice flows. Rather sweet. I take another sip.
It’s a rather small shop, clean and efficient, much like their Bento Boxes.
Cars wail past, pedestrians cross and walk in all directions, rarely glancing in the shop in which I sit. Each one of the unfamiliar faces blends into a mob of multicoloured shirts and skirts strolling down the pavement. Observing the Flash Mob of strangers walking past, I momentarily forget why I came here in the first place. Reaching for the notepad in my purse, I
write down three mental notes:
Bento Boxes
Flash Mob
Rotting fish on a sidewalk
Seated in the corner, I watch as life walks past me, bare but for its thin shirts and skirts.
A very sunny day. Finishing most of my boxes (4/6) I stare outside. Sometime later the lady that works behind the desk asks me if I want anything else. Vaguely disturbed from my thoughtless staring I look over the laminated sheet again, espresso it is. Leaving me, the lady returns to the desk. There is no one left in the small shop, I realise. All former customers have crossed the glass walls, sucked into the multicoloured abyss of the outside. Dropping the pencil, now slightly blunt. Adjust my scarf, I meet my reflection in the glass. Chemically damaged golden brown hair cascading down my back. Thin, bony limbs hugging the table, striped shirt about two sizes large. Eccentric looking, one could say. Though I like those jeans, I look chic in them.
Caught in the curly, twisty daydreams of my hair I realise that he hasn’t come yet, the only reason I find myself in this shop anyway. Perhaps he is late. Some part of me wishes to argue but I shut it down, he’s coming any moment, emerging from the blur of colours and through these glass doors inside the shop.
Restlessly I wait. He owes me an explanation. The trail of roasted arabica wanders into my nose, the espresso put down on the table. Barely noticing it, I stare through the glass. Pencil and notepad go back into my purse.
I wait faster.
The coffee is still hot, though sippable. Alone with the counter-woman on a sunny day, dressed eclectically,
life slaps me in the face, I realise heartbreak comes in many different forms. No romantic, rainy night to crush my heart. Rather, a sparkling summer midday, an abstract scene at the very least.
No, heartbreak comes in different places. Different seasons.
A different dashing of hopes.
He won’t be coming today. Paying the lady behind the counter I ready myself to exit my newfound glass cocoon. Bells jingle as I step outside. The sun is as piercing as ever, slashing into me, making the synthetic scarf itchy and moist. The mob is as colourful as always, fashionable, modern and leisurely. I do not belong.
Casually walking everywhere, anywhere. Each slipper-clad pedestrian walks past me, even more flamboyant when seen from closer. On the sidewalk trash litter the street, empty bottles, spit-stained popsicles, and candy wrappers. Usual, commonplace trash. Wait…..Next to the bin lies something scaly, shiny and ovalish. A fish. That doesn’t belong, it lies motionless on the sidewalk, mouth agape as if surprised to find out its fate. Where was I? I do not belong. Almost like a Rotting fish on a sidewalk. A very visual analogy, eye-trapping.
Grotesque, unusual, and certainly not meant to be there. A good analogy, perhaps.
Raising my arm I call for a cab, a yellow stops. I get in.
I don’t wanna be here anymore.
