Page 4 of Compassion

My mother beams brighter and saunters away to deal with their dishes.

The instant she’s out of earshot, I faintly coo, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Sugar,” he responds in the same muted volume.

I offer him the warmest smile possible and force myself to have another bite of the food I have no genuine interest in eating anymore.

Okay. Here’s what you need to know. Contrary to the unbecoming way my mother makes me sound, I really am working on moving past Chris. I’ve been on a few dates in the last three years, although most are – admittedly – the ones my mother keeps stuffing down my esophagus like this gross excuse for dinner. The few that weren’t were ones that I let myself get roped into by drunk, meddlesome coworkers in between their rounds of ‘Kill, Bang, or 2ndWife’ using the dads from the school as their subjects for the game. All the dates failed – including those with the stamp of approval from my mom – for the same reason. I’m too quiet. And I know it. I mean I’ve heard the same shit for pretty much most of my life. The thing is when there’s something I wanna talk about, I talk about it. And I keep talking about it. And I can’t stop talking about until someone basically says shhh. Chris – may he continue to rest in peace – was the same way, which is one reason he never said that to me. And one reason we were probably a good fit. Notperfectbut good enough to have a future together.

Post the last leg of the painful meal – in both taste and conversation – I make the short drive home to the somewhat soothing sounds of The Fray, a band both Chris and I enjoyed separately as well as together.

What? No. I’m not missing him. Really. I’m just craving that time in my life where I had less lectures about who I should be dating and more about proper care for these curly fries I’m blessed to call my hair.

The second I’ve crossed the threshold into my luxury two-story home that’s much too big for just me, I drop my workbag near the stairs and head straight for the kitchen in desperate need of alcohol reprieve.

Don’t worry. I’m not going to drink a whole bottle of wine in spite of the fact my mother makes me want to. Or…need to if we’re being more candid. I’m just gonna have a glass. Maybe three. Perhaps six. Is that the really whole thing, or are you just trying to stop me from drinking my problems away because I’ll have you know…I plan to eat them away, too.

I grab a bottle of red from the wine fridge prior to opening the one that contains the food in search of carb reinforcements.

You saw what she served. I can’t drink ¾ of a bottle on an empty stomach. No one likes that feeling the next morning.

Seeing the two-day-old delivery pizza that I know I’m not going to eat has me abruptly stopping the hunt, putting the wine on the nearby island, and removing the box for immediate disposal.

I swear to you I’m really not that anal retentive. When Chris was alive, he had a strict – and I meanstrict– 'no more than two days' policy for cooked food. Didn’t matter if it was takeout or something I had made. Two days and it had to go. I’m not sure if it was the smell or the possible bacteria build up or the fact that he hated clutter of any kind that inspired the rule but nonetheless, it was one. The first one he had when we moved into this place, and I use the term we rather loosely. He preferred the penthouse downtown; however, we both knew it wouldn’t be ideal for raising a family, so he bought this place. This mini mansion in a gated community next door to what it would look like if Maleficent married Jafar’s long lost American cousin. You laugh now but wait until you meet the wicked pain in the asses of Elm Ridge for yourself.

It doesn’t take long to walk back the way I came with the leftovers in tow, yet when I open my front door, I instantly become frozen in place. Near the edge of my curved driveway where my trashcan and recycle bin are cleverly hidden in a white fenced in enclosure is a tall, bearded man with tattered clothing, a beanie, and an old backpack digging in one of the containers.

Aw, that poor guy. I wonder if he’s looking for bottles or cans to recycle for a few coins that he can use to help get him whatever it is he needs. If he is, then he definitely picked the right neighborhood because practically everyone has a shit ton of those in their recycle bins.

Not wanting to scare him off, I continue to silently watch him rummage around until I realize he’s not after what he can recover for financial gain but what he can salvage for a nutritional one when he pulls out the end of a loaf of bread in victory. His head falls slightly back in relief as he squeezes the bag containing a few stale pieces in absolute joy. Like he’s receiving a Christmas miracle that’s a little late yet one he wasn’t certain he’d ever actually get. He enthusiastically starts nodding. Mumbling to himself. Stuffing the bread in his backpack so that his hands are free to go diving again. This time, his foraging is faster. More anxious. Determined. Now invested in his discovery, his success, I lean in little closer, ignoring the winter wind that’s hellbent on convincing me to go back inside where it’s warm.

And safe.

An apple I don’t remember chucking along with an orange I do remember ditching make it into his possession, yet the second, he lifts a wedge of old cheese to smell, I can’t stop myself from squeaking, “Don’t eat that!”

The man whips his head my direction, his tan face full of sharp features and hard lines.

Seeing the flash of instinct to run away is what prompts me into croaking, “I don’t want you to get sick.”

Confusion causes his thick eyebrows to dart down.

Yeah, I see yours crinkling, too. And I don’t know! I don’t know why I said that out loud, but I meant it. I don’t want him to get ill, especially not when it could’ve been prevented. This man’s…human, ya know? He doesn’t deserve to be sick…nor sick with no way to get better. Nowhere to go. No one to take care of him.

“I mean it’s cold out, but not likerefrigeratorcold out, so the chances of you getting an upset stomach from old, not properly stored cheese or something much worse like an allergic reaction or even hospitalization if you have a compromised immune system are still pretty high.”

His face instantly twitches in horror.

“Sorry,” my sheepish apology is given on an embarrassed cringe, “I swear, I wasn’t trying to like food shock you into fearing cheddar. It’s just my mom’s a doctor, and sometimes I unconsciously find myself word vomiting what she has word vomited at me to unsuspecting strangers who didn’t want the word vomit any more than I did, and as I keep saying the actualwordvomit I realize that’s disgusting and should probably stop before I make one of us physically vomit.”

The faintest flicker of a smirk unexpectedly occurs.

Ohmygod, did he just smile at me?! Did I just make someone besides a bunch of preschoolers smile?!

“Want some pizza instead?”

The male carefully lowers the lid to my trashcan with his other hand, eyes never leaving mine.

“It’s um…pepperoni, sausage and mushroom.”

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