Phở

He waited for him in the diner. Whoever he was anyway.

No, it wasn't a diner. A phở shop. That's what it was.

He found it as he grew tired from stalking the rainy alleys of the city from wanton loneliness.

The cold cut to the bone, and he knew that it would be for the best to find shelter.

Inside, the wall of humid air created by the kerosene heater hit his face. Half-relieved at the warmth of the indoor climate thawed his well-chilled face, but still half-frustrated at the fruitlessness of his search.

The menu was ragged at the edges. Splotches of ink had bled from splashes of careless slurped broth had made the menu at points incomprehensible.

Something hearty would be good, he thought, as he untangled the wires of the earphones from his fingers.

Nada. 

This seemed to be a bare-bones operation. None of the more substantial broths were there. At least not from what he could decipher.

He settled for the thinly sliced beef pho. How he wished he could have something more along the lines of brisket simmered for hours over a dutiful flame until it barely held itself together. Again, he couldn't afford to be picky.

Picky. Heartier fare. How did wish that he could have had it that way.

He thought of those moments he ducked behind the heavy clear plastic that hung over the doors of the less than reputable shops and protected the silently perusing salary men from the cold, but not from prying eyes.

He felt oddly liberated, yet exposed from when he entered. His own face held high for all too see, yet retained his anonymity as he was very much a stranger in those parts. The other patrons kept to themselves, never really glancing around, keeping their eyes low, as they went about their less than noble search. 

While the actual humans avoided his gaze, hundreds of other eyes stared back at him, from their perches on the shelves. The owners of those eyes were prostrate and contorted in every conceivable manner, chests bare and their dignities similarly flaunted for all to drink in their manly essences.

He shook himself away from that memory from half and hour or two ago, and fiddled with his phone.

Nothing.

He looked around the lazy shop. Walls were lined with calendars, posters, and knickknacks from the restauranteur's country of origin and its current foster home. Asian kitsch was the only way he could have described it.

Except he didn't. 

Instead he gazed outward, past from the trio on the table to the right who were either nursing an early hangover or preparing themselves for night that would inevitably lead to one, and out into the street.

Water, water, everywhere, and not a drop to drink.

The fluorescent glow from the convenience store from across the street mixed the with unseen neon that hung above the store scattered in the glass giving the diner, no phở shop, a magenta sheen as Japanese salsa music bounced around the room.

His meal came. 

It was weak. 

Just like his spirits that night.

This was not what I wanted, he thought. But he took what he could get.

The warmth of that soup was good enough, and his stomach appreciated what the tongue could not.

He looked around for the waitress, hoping to ask for more condiments, but she had ducked into the kitchen. At that point, he was the only customer left anyway. So in a way her absence made sense.

He buckled down and went at it.

Soon it was just a stray bean sprout left in the bowl and a stray stem of a basil leaf on the saucer.

His pocket vibrated. 

His heart skipped a beat. Reached in for the phone.

Nothing.

Phantom vibrations, he guessed. Some haptic bodily twitch responding to invisible signals that swirled in the ether above and around him. Perhaps more akin to wishful thinking.

As he stared at that empty inbox, he resigned himself to that fact that he was not going to appear tonight.

He collected his things, paid for his meal, and caught the train home. Defeated.


Although I probably shouldn't, I wonder how he is tonight.