And so the two of them sat there on the couch with the dance of the cartoons in pixels on the screen, their children fixated on it, Clifford in his new monogrammed collar, asleep on the arm of the couch. Two separate lives under one roof. A living arrangement called a marriage. It was a sham, a game of pretense. They could feel that sham peeking through the visage of their lives. It did not compel them to action. Instead, it froze them both where they were seated. Waiting without waiting.
CHAPTER 7
A string of boutique shops lined both sides of the street. Any time one of their doors was opened, the unique scent of the store boiled out. One of these shops was a restaurant that was open for both breakfast and dinner. During lunch, they would prop open their door and welcome anyone who wanted to eat there for free.
Aria had found this place in one of her searches on the library computers the week before. She had become accustomed to eating only one meal a day, if she were lucky. For the last two days, that one meal a day had been the soup and breadsticks offered here. She felt shy to go there, guilty even to be accepting charity. But this place was such a comfort. There was nothing fancy about it. The linoleum flooring was the same that had been put there in the 1950s. It was turning yellow and the extent of its pomp was a floral design that looked like it could have been copied from the draperies at an old age home. Plastic folding tables were covered with large sheets of paper that had been clumsily ripped. And plastic chairs, like the ones that had been ordered in bulk for her school cafeteria, were arranged around them.
A long line usually formed out the door and down the street, a line that boasted all kinds of people. Some who had not seen a shower in months, whose clothes were torn and fetid. Others who looked like they had simply walked off a job site to take opportunistic advantage of a meal they didn’t have to pay for. When Aria reached the front of the line, she could see a collection of giant stainless steel vats, three flavors of soup to choose from each day. Their fragrances mixed into one, like a complex curry. Next to the soups were plastic tubs full of breadsticks left over from the day before. Aria reveled in their toasted and yeasty aroma.
Each person in line grabbed one of the brightly colored, plastic cafeteria trays, and told whichever staff member who happened to step forward from the disarray of multitasking which soup they wanted. They were handed a generous ladle of that soup in a large styrofoam cup, a plastic spoon with a napkin, three breadsticks and two handfuls of salted peanuts. On the way to the seating area, a row of self-service water jugs and paper cups lined the counter. Some days, Aria was lucky enough to find a table. Other days, she had to find a place on the sidewalk.
Today, Aria arrived early enough to find a place at a table. She planned on keeping to herself, and was fully involved in her relationship with the food alone when she was assaulted by the energy of unattuned enthusiasm belonging to a man who had decided to place himself in the chair directly beside her. There were plenty of tables open, she noticed. She was puzzled by his oblivious nature already. Common social protocol dictated that people would sit as far away from each other as possible, until there were literally no seats left and you had to sit next to one another, whether you liked it or not. The defiance of this social norm made her feel violated and distrust his motives. Though her body language reflected the sentiment, she tried not to overtly react to him so as to give those feelings away.
He was tall and effeminate with cadet-blue eyes, high cheekbones and an overhanging brow. At 19 years old, his lips were full and wide, just hiding a gap in his upper front teeth that was more fashionably quirky than it was unsightly. His hair was buzzed on the back and sides, leaving a quiff of bleached pompadour-style hair on the top of his head, which he had swept to one side as if frustrated with the way it wanted his attention. Aria did not pay attention to his pants. But she noticed that he was wearing a powder-blue shirt with cap sleeves, whose neckline dived almost far enough to expose his sternum. On the front, in white letters, were two words with boxes beside them, the first “Single” and the second “Taken.” The box next to the word single was run through with a check mark.
Not even half a minute passed before, growing uncomfortable in the tension between them, he decided to crack it. He put out his right hand, dissecting the space between Aria’s face and her plate, and said, “I’m Taylor.”
As if on involuntary autopilot, but still keeping turned to
