Midnight Lunch: An Erotic Story about Microwave Omelets Read Free Page B

the cops. Kids under 21 who try to buy alcohol with fake
IDs to bust lazy cashiers and shady bars.
    She shrugs without a word.
    I say, “Really?”
    She says, “No.”
    We stare at each other. I don’t understand
this person. Lack of comprehension floods me. Not confusion,
because I’m not trying to make sense of it, just blank whiteness
with no meaning. I don’t understand her at all. I say, “So are you
actually under 21?”
    She says, “No,” and smiles. A real smile. An
amused one, like she’s happy here, with me. Like I made her smile
with my fumbling, my blank white questions.
    I smile back. A real smile. I show too much.
I let her see I’m happy here too. With her. Happy to be the
gullible bird who swallows every plastic fish. Tell me another one;
I’ll believe anything you say.
    She backs toward the door and says, “Have a
good night.”
    I say, “You too. See you to… later.” I nearly
say ‘tomorrow,’ remember that’s my day off, can’t remember what day
of the week it is, decide it would be weird to say ‘see you
Friday,’ like we have some kind of date, or ‘see you two days from
now,’ and finish lamely, way too late.
    At the end of my shift I think about asking
Parteek if I can work tomorrow anyway. I feel like I’m right at the
tipping point of befriending her and don’t want to miss my chance.
What if she thinks I quit, or stopped working graveyard?
    People have days off, I tell myself. I try to
turn down the volume on my worrying as I head across town to meet
Georgia for breakfast. My friends’ schedules overlap mine around
the edges. We eat at a diner in her neighborhood with light green
linoleum floor tiles that match the light green booth upholstery. I
chew on a bagel with cream cheese and listen to her talk about the
record shop.
    It’s a summer job, like mine, but lately
she’s been talking like the record shop is her top priority. I ask
her if she has her fall classes picked out and she puts her spoon
in her coffee. She starts stirring before she’s added any milk or
sugar.
    She stirs and says, “I think I’m going to
take a semester off.”
    I say, “We only have two left.”
    “I know,” she gives me a hard look,
“Obviously.”
    I shake my head, “What are you going to do?
Work at the record shop?”
    She sighs and I can’t shake the night-shift
mother in me. I flip my hands over on the table, palms up.
    She says, “Yes. That’s what I want.” She
nods, “That’s what I want to do right now.”
    “And what about tomorrow?” I push her
again.
    “Look,” she holds up her hand to stop me,
“What does a degree get you? Go ahead and finish. I bet you still
won’t have any idea what you want.”
    “I want a degree,” I counter.
    “And then what?”
    “Then I’ll take it from there.”
    “That’s what I’m doing. I’m ‘taking it’ from
right here. Why wait?”
    “Because you’re like, this far off the
ground,” I hold my hand flat, a few inches over the table, “The
only options you have are the ones right under you.”
    “You and your metaphors,” she shakes her
head. She looks amused but the tight line of her mouth is
defensive. “Here’s one for you. If we all have to climb our way
from where we are to where we want to be, I might as well start
climbing now.”
    “You’ll reach the first ledge and wish you
had anchored a line first.”
    I leave Georgia and her record shop dreams. I
go home and try to sleep but I keep replaying my clumsy goodbye to
the beautiful girl with the bleached hair.
    When I wake up, the sun has already set. I
eat breakfast on the floor with my phone in my lap and my cereal
bowl balanced between my feet. My roommates are still up, but I
keep to myself. Talking to them right before they go to sleep isn’t
a great way to start my day.
    I put on a jacket, even though the day’s heat
hasn’t fully faded. The train gets me to the movie theatre at 8:50
pm and Lenny is already at the door with tickets. We watch