I know it is quite a few days past Valentine’s Day. I apologise for the delay but please do accept my belated decaying treat for you.
Dead End
Somewhere between Mumbai and Pune lies a dirt road. The tiny path goes unnoticed on most days. But sometimes, a small beige sign pops up with ‘Restaurant’ written on it in a dull red colour. The ‘R’ has a splatter of mud on it and the edges are caked with rust. Fortunate ones drive past. You take a right turn and drive down. Gravel groans beneath your tyres as you reach a dead end where the restaurant stands like a vintage photograph.
You step in. An aged waiter seats you at a table next to the live band. The four musicians stand like statues except their hands that play a haunting melody. No matter how close you pull your chair towards them, the music sounds muffled.
On your right is an old couple. The woman has a split lip that stays upturned in a smile, even when the waiter spills hot soup on her dress. Her partner is looking at the table across the room. There sits a young woman. Her dark hair has streaks of purple in it. Her boyfriend stares at her, mouth open in wonder. She is captivated by her phone.
The staff is dressed in black and white. Their shiny shoes are thick and heavy. Yet they make no sound as their owners flit across the room. They have put up heart-shaped balloons that have wrinkled with time. Some are dangling from a sliver of cello tape and a couple are languishing on the floor.
It isn’t very bright, but it sets a cosy mood, especially with the candles. You check the buffet. You watch a bug crawl around a woman’s plate. She is too preoccupied trying to balance the plate, her toddler and the baby bag to notice. The cake has black and green mold on it. It doesn’t stop a teenager from shoving it in his friend’s face. He falls down and smacks his head at the edge of a table. They laugh, but it gets swallowed by the room.
You start walking towards your table. You stop in front of a mirror that adorns one of the pillars. It has patches of dull brown on the edges and the reflection is hazy. But you can see your belly as you adjust your dress. You turn around and sigh at the back fat bulging against the fabric. You fluff your hair. There is a fountain of greys sprouting at the crown. You lean a bit closer, playing with the parting till black strands sufficiently cover them up.
You sit. Alone.
The waiter brings you chips, three cupcakes and your favourite Choco chip ice cream, double scoop. Flies flock at your table, dancing and skirting around your hand as you shoo them away. The ice cream is semi liquified. You take a bite. It isn’t how you remember it. You take another. Doesn’t work. The milk and sugar settle on your tongue, curdled and sticky. You gag. You catch the eye of Split Lip, who averts her gaze. She hasn’t eaten a morsel. You can see her clavicles. You finish the ice cream.
There is a commotion. Purple Hair is trying to leave but the doors won’t open. Her boyfriend is at her feet. He holds a knife to his throat. He screams he will kill himself but it comes out as a whisper. Purple Hair stays, hugging him.
You look at your plate and realize you ate two cupcakes during the drama. You look up and see your waiter walking towards you with fries and spiced mayonnaise. You become aware of the spandex you are wearing and the way it is digging into your stomach. It hurts. The red line on your skin marking its presence is chafing. You stand up with a force that makes your chair fall down. All sounds cease. All eyes turn to you. Your body tingles like life itself is being drained from within as you take a step towards the door. The silence of the room crushes against your skull. You fixate on your feet till they finally make it to the door.
A gasp cuts through the silence as your hand grips the heavy, wooden handle.
A patron at the back stands on tiptoe to get a better look. You can feel a hunger creeping in the air. Your breath freezes mid exhale and your palms are so sweaty they make holding on difficult. You look around, trying to find an anchor. Split Lip stares, still smiling but her mascara is running down her cheek.
Behind her is the mirror. Your eyes lock into your distorted reflection.
Your hand slips. The room sighs.
The band begins playing another song.
The waiter ushers you back to your seat.
Your table has a new addition. A pizza.
On the house.
You eat.
THE END