Lunch

I crouch down, vomiting inside the restaurant's restroom painfully. I gasp rapidly, striving to regain oxygen when the vision is so shattered and muzzy. “That’s terrible.” Grace waits outside, smoking a cigarette in the vibrant maid attire. “That Kiki maid? I refired 15 carbonara since she’s broken them countless times. Last shift, she knocked my hand onto the fucking stove. Seriously, no one is taking some sort of responsibility?” She exhales an ascending wisp of smoke, which vanishes slowly. “She’s the sister of the executive of this restaurant.” I turn to sit on the ground powerlessly. “Still, what I mentioned is the wound before the shift. On your left hand.” She sighs. “It’s alright.” “Is that the only fucking sentence you speak?” She sits beside me on the ground. “Fuck, the smell is killing me. The fuck is your breakfast?” “I didn’t grab one?” “That pretty much explains the odor.” She tosses the remaining cigarettes into the toilet. “Grab a lunch?” She asks.

I return to the apartment and witness the panicked expression of Elizabeth inside. Her evergreen pupils are watery and reflect the illumination of apprehension under the stern light. “The moment when I come to check on you, there’s only pieces of the shattered mirror on the ground and blood.” She sniffs while pretending to be peaceful, striving not to let the sentiment of relief utterly register. Under the guidance of my rationality, I would simply provide shallow reassurance before moving on to the original track of my life. Nevertheless, the overwhelming tiredness inside sheerly compels me to remain silent. I lost even the desire to explain. “Ms. Elizabeth. It’s midnight currently. I believe that you and I require some rest. The rent will be paid on time, so there’s nothing that you should worry about. Good night.” We lost the ability to talk, as if hiding in the safe, transparent sphere of silence. None of us yearns for this “peace” to be decimated suddenly. “There’s a letter for you.” She replies, giving me a white envelope embellished with a lavish golden line. “Fuck, it’s Ms. Kennedy.” “Who’s Kennedy?” She exclaims. “The professor of Olivia. Very strict.” I sigh. “Oh, I forgot to mention that I gave most of the paintings of Olivia for a memorial exhibition. Sorry.” Elizabeth sighs, “I guess that’s correct? Those should be appreciated by the public.” “Yeah,” I reply frailly, while taking a glimpse of the broken mirror, its pieces still scattered on the ground, couldn’t be fixed, couldn’t be mended, couldn’t be addressed.

I take a massive bite of a sandwich hungrily. “I thought cooks like you couldn’t stand the taste of this scandalous shit. The last one prepares lunch himself.” “Nah, most of the time it’s too tiring to do so.” “Why work in a restaurant? You’re a student, and honestly, this job is definitely not for someone like a student.” Grace asks, gulping down a submarine sandwich. “It pays well? Especially if you’re a cook.” “That’s quite practical.” She nods.

We stuff our mouths with bite after bite of bread, swallowing it in the presence of silence. “Why work in a restaurant then?” I ask. “Cause… that’s a promise.” She smiles.

I walk inside an ornate restaurant embellished with various luxurious adornments. The vibration of the strings and the soothing voice of the singer fill the place with utter tranquility. “Ms. Kennedy. It is an honor to…” “Cut the bullshit, Victor.” She sighs, apparently annoyed. While dressing in the business attire that I had prepared, I sit down clumsily. “Olivia is the best pupil I’ve ever instructed.” The glass silently reflects my distorted appearance due to the lighting in this place. I speak frailly, “Was.” She twitched, as if a section of her sentiment were offensively touched, before returning to the irritated look. “I understand her. I understand that she possesses that spark, the talent, and the obsession.” I nod in silence while a piece of my consciousness somewhat tells me to avoid her. “No one possesses that kind of gift. No one.” “Why couldn’t you be the one to pass away? ” She speaks not as a light expression, yet a voice that yearns deeply.

The waiter stands dumbfoundedly by the side of us, bewildered and haunted. “I’ll take the luncheon.” I say.

I sit tiredly on the couch while the dress is shed off somewhere on the ground. The place is shrouded in darkness. The city is so quiet and tranquil that everyone is drifting off to its harmony peacefully. I sigh and turn to catch a glimpse of the easel. Seriously, I lost the caliber and power to paint or address this destructive pain. Hence, I drag myself across the tainted ground to grab a box hidden under the bed. There is rubbish inside. I dig through the paintings in the past, various genres of books, and the envelope I found in Olivia’s apartment. On the surface it is written, “To Victor,” in hazy handwriting. I sigh deeply before stuffing it back into darkness.

The illuminating light of grandeur casts a hollowing silhouette onto the ground. My presence, surprisingly, was as if melting inside the murk, slowly vanishing inside the brilliance instead of vividly painting my contour line. “It is your responsibility to carry on Olivia’s legacy.” Ms. Kennedy speaks while cutting the deceased fish on the plate; its eyes are ripped out, and its flesh is mutilated. “As if I could.” I sigh. While the movement of her hand intensifies, the meat has broken down into shattering pieces rapidly. “That’s why I decided to pay you a visit in this restaurant.” The bone of the fish is crushed, letting out a crisp sound.