+++
The order on deck is from the Thai restaurant you took her to on her birthday.
The order before the Hand Tossed no tippers and 24th floor West Tower flasher, but definitely after the Sushi Wrap nightgown, was for a VIP guest at the club she used to work at.
A plan is just a list of things that don’t happen.
Chasing ghosts.
And if it couldn’t get any worse…
The order before that one.
Oh yea… You guessed it.
Vegan.
Not a fan.
The garlic odor remains long after the exchange is over, as does the sting of personally handing it to her old Pilates instructor, who obviously has a better barber than you, and hasn’t begun to sprout grays.
Give it time, fuckface.
Being called grandpa at 34 will humble most any man. Being called an asshole for promptly extinguishing your cigarette in her thirty-dollar cocktail shortly thereafter, will aid in soothing that burn, though.
This little unorthodox courting ritual pales in comparison to your last run of the day.
Highlight reel worthy, indeed.
Starring You.
+++
Presented here.
You.
Now in over starched and under pressed formal attire, fit for disaster.
You. Do a curtsy-like admonishment as the door opens, because why not.
You.
Six foot two inches of slouching defeat…
…now lying about a mix-up with the addresses.
A rare glitch in the algorithm, perhaps.
You… are actually attempting to barter for tangible evidence of your existence.
YOU!
…stupid sad motherfucker.
Bribing this poor man with an unsolicited Cold-Cut that he definitely didn’t order.
You say, maybe it was a gift.
You already know the set of numbers on the door behind him are not the ones on the manifest.
“Must be my lucky day,” he suggests.
Oh no, no…
Her father did not get the ham on rye.
Honest mistake, you say.
Could‘ve happened to anyone.
No. Just you.
You, or at least, whatever is left… now having him stare through you, no recognition whatsoever. Not the slightest case of Deja who.
No confusion or confirmation is visible.
Nothing.
Nothing.
…nothing.
There’s nothing there.
Like father, like daughter.
All this took place in sixty seconds, but you’re still frozen on his doorstep. Far too long after the curtain call, and the door closing. Silently begging him to remember you as something other than a mopey Angel who delivers divine foot-longs to the unsuspecting faithful.
Sometimes faith is enough.
More times… never enough.
This time…
Fucking pointless.
Not too long ago, you were a prospective addition to the family. Ten years worth of you hoping to win his approval, and you didn’t even win an existence.
He.
Has.
No.
Fuckin idea, who you are…
You have no idea who you are.
Maybe it was all a dream. The entire thing.
Please, wake up…
…please.
Please… wake up.
Please…
Snap.
At least he thanked you with a warm and genuine smile as he took the sandwich, along with a full side order of your pride.
Pan-seared to perfection.
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