Stuck in a synesthetic mush I am, again - for fuck's sake - again! Today it's a malformed beast made of disparate legs and arms, tumbling in limps and strides at irregularly swift steps. There's an ugly-toed club laying a stomp from 1983 and stomping it down again in 1995. Next to it another miniscule rat of a limb rattles off ten thousand taps on the floor in the time the other one took to slice its single cumbersome stride. All the while, equally disturbed hands rip at the fabric of time - tearing of a strip to lay down a year or few later - others pad gently, consistently, stroking, caressing as they have to. Today, but it is only today I'm sure (I have to be to bear it) - just this mass of skin cobbled together in a sick tirade of walking - through time. If you're not careful, the following story will explain this entire woken nightmare. I just wish I could let it slip like water, but there I go again...
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We went there for lunch about once a month, usually if the other places were too busy. The food was alright, probably more generous than other places nearby, but the place smelled of dust - old, wet dust - and that's not the most appetizing smell I've known. The walk to the counter always seemed too far too. It was only about twenty metres, but edging between the mostly empty tables made it seem further. The tables near the door were never used - I was sure the chairs under some of them hadn't been moved for months - every single time I went in I had the desire to move one of them, just an inch, just to check it could. I never did though and it's a silly little regret in a story that has so many. It's the little, pointless regrets which make the genuine ones seem lighter though. I'll get on to those at some point, but they might be so big they barely fit into view - I'm almost afraid to dig around them. Ha - like it's my choice or something anyway.
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All three of us ordered the beef. It was called 'beef steak' on the menu and we ordered it through a mix of some of us wanting it first and then down to fourth level alternatives. That was another reason we didn't eat there often. The third was the waiting. On most visits, by the time the food came, you were so tired of waiting for it, you'd either forgotten what you'd ordered or reminded yourself so often that you could barely endure the thought of consuming it any longer. There's only so many ways you can imagine the word 'beef' before it loses its appeal altogether. It was one of the latter days for me. When the plate was unceremoniously plopped on the table I glared at it in disgust. I'd seldom seen such lurid food - the grains of its flesh combed open by slow overcooking. All I could think about was the cow's side, beaten by sun and wrenched open by baking. Like I said, I glared at it, my lips drawn taut at the sight of it. I was sure if I picked it up there'd be no trace of its existence on the crockery - a dry slab of dead beast. I mean, I'm certainly no vegetarian, but seemed somehow stolen from the cow - like it really shouldn't have been on my plate.
Nobody except May had even moved a finger towards a knife or fork. We all looked at her as she made her peculiar hand turns to navigate the beef. I'd never seen anyone eat like that - it was mesmerizing. The way she ate meant the ability to be polite had left the table - everyone gaped as May manoeuvred her cutlery in a bizarre, childlike waltz into the beef.
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