An eternity of uncomfortable silence seems to pass. Someone crawled out of the ceiling of my bathroom. Someone is standing in front of me. Someone, a stranger, is trespassing in my home. I waited for the rage to overtake me. I waited for the violation of their action to spur me to recourse, and yet…

I felt nothing. I could only stare at them blankly. Shocked, surely. Scared, absolutely. I could no longer tell, however, if my self-preservation was failing me. Or, daring to dream, if this person was no threat to me.

“Do you want some chicken?” I let out in an arduous breath.

They looked at me, puzzled, “no, thank you. I’m vegetarian.”

I held their gaze for another moment and then, without warning, a laugh erupted from my bowels. Shaking my abdominal muscles in a manner they were no longer accustomed to. I nearly choked on my own spit.

“Vegetarian?!” I spat through the wall of phlegm. “It’s the end of the known world, barely anything left to eat or grow regardless if they are animal or vegetable, and you have a preference?”

As shocked as I must have looked earlier at their arrival, they held my gaze in the same anxious-ridden stare. Almost as if to say ‘I’m sorry.’ They looked tired. I wonder if I look that tired, too.

“No, no. That’s okay,” I scrambled. “I only meant that you must be hungry and I wouldn’t imagine anyone being particularly picky about their food. I am a stranger, though. That’s true. I also do have to acknowledge that it’s probably odd that I even have access to meat. I can’t really answer questions about that chicken. I assume you’ve seen what’s left of many animals around here. But, there’s this area near the Northwestern bog, near the old cathedral. That’s where we found it. Absolutely crazy. Well, Lily killed it,” pointing to my little brown idiot sniffing at our intruder’s shoes. Perfectly happy to inspect new smells. “It’s perfectly safe to eat, though. I had some yesterday and I feel fine. Well, as fine as I can be. I mean that the food isn’t poisonous. I’m not trying to poison you, is my meaning.” God, I was rambling.

“No, no, I get it. I just don’t like the texture,” they mercifully replied.

“Oh.”

“Yea. It’s a little silly,” they said looking down a little sheepish.

“Oh, no! I mean I get it completely. I hate eggplant. Still do. And it’s not like there’s ever only one, singular thing to eat. I know parents probably used to tell kids to try and make us finish a plate of food we didn’t like: ‘Well, what would you do if that was all there was? Starve?’ But, even now, there’s still options. Weird ones,” I mused. “But options, all the same.” They stared at me again. “Didn’t you say those mushrooms are edible? I can fry up a few of those, maybe with some bread?” I motioned towards the cupboard. “There’s even some butter…I think I still have some.”

“You have butter?”

“There was a bakery next door, I cleaned them out,” I explained.

Rummaging around like a kitchen witch, I move from one cupboard to the next grabbing supplies.Dried rosemary, some thyme. I feel light, somehow. Feeling, dare I say, good. Feeling better. My joints start to make room for the surrounding ligaments, a warmth fills my muscles.

“Yes, but how is it being stored?”

“The fridge?” I said, puzzled.

“You have a working fridge?”

“Yes. Everything in here works.”

“That’s impossible.” They hold a stark and blaring eye-contact. Their energy appears to shift from apologetic confusion and fear into calculation. A visual calculus of the odd situation at hand. Cutting through me. Accusing, almost. It felt like a loud, low horn blowing from underneath the surface of our conversation. I need to throw them off.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

“Hand me that frying pan,” I sighed, pointing slightly above their head to the left. They just kept on staring. Staring and standing in their accusation. Sure as, and stubborn, a pig in shit with not a singular budge.

There’s a brief pause. A deep inhale through my nostrils, frustrated that I have found myself as the distrusted being in the room.

“Do you honestly think I’m going to hit you with a frying pan?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Was that before or after the world shat itself?”

“Before.”

“Ha! I want to hear that story. Fine, pardon me…” I dipped behind them to grab my little frying pan. “Can you be a dear and grab those mushrooms for me? Wash them, maybe?” I turned back around to face them. “You can tell me all about it during lunch. I don’t have a table, but the floor works just as well. I have a blanket I put down for meals, very boho-chic.”

Still not moving.

“Look, you can stand and stare at me all you like but may I remind you that you are the one who broke into my home. You are the guest. And I’m trying desperately to remember how to talk to someone at all. I wasn’t super good at it to begin with, so I don’t imagine I’m any better now. I’m nervous. You’re staring. Maybe find a book instead, I have plenty and I’ve read most of them. Some books just don’t want to be read.”

“...like what?”

“War and Peace, actually. Still can’t get through that one. But! Don’t fret. I have many other Russians to enjoy. Especially if you’re interested in ballet. I have a huge array of text from the romantic era of Russian ballet. Really interesting stuff.”

“Why ballet?”

“An interest that carried over from a previous lifetime. Hand me that will you?” I motioned at a small paring knife on the counter closest to them. They hesitate, but oblige. “Thanks, onion please” I say with my hand outstretched, watching them through the periphery of my focus, chopping. “I’m going to need those mushrooms cleaned up, want to grab them for me? You’re taller.”

I extend the knife to them. Eyes fixed on theirs. Heart rate racing less like a hummingbird and more like a misplaced queen bee from her hive, hoping to find home.

“Is this a test?” They asked, the knife still floating in the limbo between us.

“Not particularly, why?”

“Because no one in their right mind hands a complete stranger a knife.”

“I don’t think there is any room for a right mind in our circumstances, so I don’t claim to have one. Now, will you please take this? My rotator cuff is killing me from holding it at this angle for so long while you decide whatever it is that you want to do. In any case, be quick about it.”

“How can you be so calm about this?”

“One, my dog, Lily, hasn’t barked at you once. That’s a good sign. Now, she’s keeping her distance but she is relaxed and satisfied after her initial inspection. I suspect you’re likely too tired to fight me anyhow, you look like you haven’t eaten in a few days. You are definitely dehydrated by the looks of it, so I don’t imagine you have much energy to spare.”

“I could make it work.” They answered.

“And I could be a mirage. Do you have any idea what kind of mold is in this building? Even before scales we had mold. It could be a combination of every mold imaginable.” I moved in closer. “Seeping and sinking into the in-between spaces that cleaning doesn’t touch, can’t find, and won’t bother worrying about until it’s too late. Silent as death itself. How long were you hiding among all that death?”

We hold here for another discomforting pause. They shift their weight back and forth, deciding, I suppose.

“Fine, lunch.” They finally declare.

“How generous of you,” I joke. “There’s a cleaver in the drawer if you change your mind.”

They pause and turn back to me as if they’re about to ask the question: ‘What if I did?’

I answer their unuttered question with a shrug.

“That place is cursed, you know, where you found that chicken,” they called from the bathroom. “I wouldn’t go back there.”

“You don’t have to, but I’m going back.”

They’re behind me again, now with mushrooms, the paring knife facing down from a hanging hand by their side.

“I’m looking for someone.”

“Who?”

“My husband.”

“Why? Did he go missing?”

“Yes.”

“I’m so sorry, how long ago?”

“A story for a different day,” I concluded.