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Greek Food
"Where was I five years ago?" I repeated the question several times, allowing it to worm its way through the muck in my mind.
I hadn't been eating for a few days. Not on purpose, not to lose weight-I don't do that anymore. No, I was just miserable
and it was precisely because of where I was in relation to where I had fantasized being five years ago. I had just
accepted a job, my first real one since graduating college, and the joy and sense of accomplishment I had been so
eagerly anticipating were instantaneously replaced when I hung up with HR, by a shock of disappointment and despair.
The position was entry level, I had taken a significant pay cut and it was not my field. Fuck.
Justin's response exemplified our many differences. Young and handsome he was a medical student and cold as a scalpel.
Five years ago he was making more money than I would be now, preparing to leave for Europe with his brothers. I envied him.
I despised him because of what I suspected him to be; an elitist. A snob. I hated him for believing he was where he was
because of his own determination. Money begets money, poverty begets poverty. I wanted him to know suffering and see
if he came out of it with his sense of superiority intact.
"Five years ago?" I cleared my throat, "I wasn't a very happy person five years ago, I was twenty years old
and my boyfriend had just died." Took a part of me with him.
"Wow. How long had you been going out?" he asked, munching on falafel.
"Two or three months." Irrelevant, I thought. I was in love with him and he died. That's it.
He considered this while he ate. "Why do you think it affected you so much?"
I stumbled, sensing a great chill. "I guess I never had anyone die on me before." I shrugged,
I was determined that he should never see me exposed. "I guess it was for the best though."
He raised his eyebrows at me.
"Not like that, I'm not happy he died. But if he had lived I would be barefoot and pregnant on an Indian reservation."
His face was as remorseless as stone. He smiled, "Cool! A Native American."
"Yep. A Crazy Injun." I smiled back at him. I wasn't going to satisfy his curiosity.
The short answer is he died drinking and driving. The real reason is a complex web
of poverty and alcoholism and an abusive father who sired over forty children and
choked Tito's beautiful soul by the time he was my age now. It was hell knowing
his potential and watching some privileged smirking little bastard talk about
manifesting your dreams through hard work.
I continued poking at my salad and taking small sips of red wine. Any attempt to eat would be completely futile.
We didn't say anything for some time. He finally broke our silence.
"So where would you like to be in five years?"
I pretended to consider this and made my face a mask of concentration. Justin possessed a sense of mastery over
life that I can only dream of. He promised not to love me and so far he hasn't. He said he isn't ready; his
life isn't where he wants it to be. So he keeps sleeping with me and saving his pennies for the day he finds
a girl maybe without poverty stamped so indelibly on her passport. The reason I am still here is because
I am hoping some of it rubs off on me, alternately because I want to be there when life knifes him in the back.
Kicks him so hard that he knows how infinitesimally small he is, how powerless and at the mercy of heartless Fortuna.
And these questions are bullshit. Life is a cyclone that spits us out regardless of intention.
These questions are the equivalent of telling a Tornado to please drop me off at a certain address.
These questions evidence a dangerous lack of respect for fate. He wouldn't understand though, he hasn't
learned that lesson, yet.
Where do I want to be in 5 years? I limit my response to something he can understand.
The equivalent of rock star or athlete and he nods, eager to share his five and ten-year goals,
plans that don't involve me and I oooh and aah at the right moments but really I just feel lightheaded and sick.
Chloe Lunn
Email: Chloe Lunn
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