Check Please
A short story by Scott Berchman
Originally published on Medium, June 18, 2016, for The Weekly Knob
Her fork sits before her. Four simple prongs, made of worn out silver, lay out in an arch across the edge of the Chinese restaurant’s patterned porcelain plate. Her face is an elongated distortion, pulled apart at its seams, as it stares back at her from the handle. She tries to find her expression.
She wants to say, “I love you.” She doesn’t. She can’t. She won’t. Does she sit and wait? Or does she make her next move the most important one of her life? Either way she’s afraid to look up.
“Can I bring you anything else?” asks the waiter, waltzing in next to her. She sees his figure next to hers in the fork’s reflection. He looks even thinner than she does — like that’s even possible.
How long has she been silent?
“Jen?” James’ voice rings out from the other side of the table. She takes a quick breath only she can hear.
That voice. Ugh. She can’t quite place what the sound makes her feel like anymore. It used to be a comfort, like that first sip of morning coffee; warm enough to feel it drip down your throat and into your core. But now? Now it starts to burn a little.
“Are you done?” James asks impatiently.
“I can come back,” the waiter says with one foot stepping away. He’s worked long enough to know when he’s interrupted an awkward moment.
“Jen.” James wants an answer.
Jen slowly picks up her fork. Her eyes dash around her plate: left, right, left, center.
“Just do it!” she cries to herself. Clang! She stabs a piece of sweet and sour chicken. The fork prongs tear through the fried skin and strike through the nugget and onto the plate. Maybe she chipped it.
“I’m done,” she says quietly but she hears it confidently.
“I’ll get the check then,” says James.
“…with you.” She picks up her head, finally. She catches his gaze.
Seconds pass.
It’s been a long time since she’s looked someone in the eyes for this long without breaking a stare. Her fingers are still wrapped tightly around the fork that’s seems cemented into the chicken. She looks back and forth at his eyes: right, left, right, left, right.
“I love you,” says James, trying to convince her.
She picks up the fork, sweet and sour chicken still skewered, and reaches it out towards James’ mouth.
His look is one of utter confusion as the chicken passes his lips. He bites down. She pulls the fork out of his mouth, grazing his teeth. The sound sends chills down her arm and into her shoulders. She gently places the fork down next to her plate. Slowly, she stands. Finally, she breaks her stare away from his eyes and towards the door.
James is barely chewing the chicken, “Jen, no.” His voice muffled like he’s talking through a sock.
She leaves.
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Check out all my writing at my personal: https://medium.com/scott-berchman
