Our Thoughts are with you. Always. Our Thoughts lurk in the darkened corner of your bedroom while you sleep. Our Thoughts are watching from outside the window while you enter the coffee shop and ask for a large chai latte with almond milk. Our Thoughts flee down the street when you emerge. The Thoughts want to keep a respectful distance. They hide in the alley as you walk by, texting your new boyfriend. Our Thoughts all agree that he’s a funny-looking boyfriend.
There are three Thoughts in the group that follows you across the intersection into the park. Our Thoughts are just a little too far away to catch the WALK signal. One of the Thoughts, named Hunger, has to dive and scurry between the wheels of a Jeep. He leaps up onto the sidewalk and stops. Hunger is panting hard, catching his breath and leaning on the leg of a park bench. Hunger is three inches tall. His stubby little legs are sore. The other two Thoughts, Malice and Regret, turn their heads to make sure Hunger will catch up. Our Thoughts are with you as you unlock the door of the restaurant. Our Thoughts slip inside behind you. You are sighing, because you know that Damon is going to be late. Again.
Our Thoughts are with you as you set down your drink and open the walk-in cooler. All three Thoughts are climbing the shelves, past bags of rice and sugar, spices and flour. Our Thoughts settle in to perch on the top shelf and watch you beginning your workday. Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You are blushing when you read the text. Your funny-looking boyfriend must be flirting. Regret groans. Your phone buzzes again. Now, you groan. Damon has come up with another elaborate excuse for his tardiness.
Hunger lifts the lid on a container of semi-sweet chocolate chips. He crawls inside, his stubby legs kicking in the air for a moment as he drops into the clear plastic Cambro. He struggles to his feet on the uneven brown terrain. Hunger is nibbling on a pyramidal chocolate nugget and watching you carry several saran-wrapped metal bowls to the prep tables. You are grinding your teeth. You go about your duties with the auto-pilot attitudes of an exhausted robot. Regret and Malice are dangling their legs off of the shelf’s ledge. They are each about four inches tall. They lean against each other like old lovers, skinny arms wrapped around waists. If you happened to look up from your work, you wouldn’t notice our Thoughts.
Thoughts are not invisible, though they often escape notice. You are never looking for them, so they just fade into the scenery. Our Thoughts have been watching you for weeks. We sent them to observe you, and to wait for the Moment. None of us know when the Moment will come. We only suspect that it might come soon. The air has tasted different since you started talking to the funny-looking boyfriend. You lean against the table and sip the chai latte. You are staring off into space. Your eyes dart around the kitchen, making mental notes. This needs to be started, that needs to be finished.
Everything needs to be cleaned. The drain under the dishwasher is splattered with gray muck. Our Thoughts watch you intently. Malice wipes his naked arm across his runny nose, leaving a little trail of snot. Regret hugs him closer for a moment.
You’re kneading a large ball of dough when the doorbell chimes. You are expecting Damon to shuffle in, lacking hustle as usual. Our Thoughts crane their necks to see the kitchen door. The door swings open, but it is not Damon standing there. It is a woman. Her dark hair and eyes are painted playfully with the stripes of a golden morning sun. She wears a dress speckled with earthy autumn colors. She is scowling at you. She rests her brown hand against the door, preventing it from swinging closed behind her.
“Faye Kennydee?” She asks.
“Hi. Yes. That’s me,” You say, “Can I help you?”
“I have come to help you,” The woman says, “You are in grave danger and there isn’t much time.” Our Thoughts gasp in unison. Hunger chokes a bit on a chunk of chocolate. Is this the Moment?
“No, thank you,” You say, holding up a hand to stop the woman from continuing. Your restaurant is near downtown and you are used to the eccentric types who wander the area. “We open at 11. Come back later and I’ll be happy to give you a meal. On the house.”
Our Thoughts sigh deeply. This is not the Moment. Still, they can’t seem to take their eyes off the stranger in the doorway. Her bottom lip quivers, restraining some thick and powerful emotion. She reaches up to adjust the orange scarf tied around her mop of dark curly hair. “Fine! Be that way!” She shouts at you, “Just don’t pretend I didn’t warn you!”
And with that, she turns on her sandal-clad heel and leaves, slamming the front door behind her. You shake your head as you bend back to your dough massage.
A few minutes later, Damon finally arrives and leisurely puts on his apron. The ponderous lethargy with which Damon knots his apron strings sparks an unreasoning rage in your soul. You are overwhelmed with loathing for this fat-headed stupid doofus, who you foolishly hired to help with prep and dishes. Intellectually, you are aware that you actually like Damon: that he is a kind and competent young person who is just bad at time-management. Emotionally, though, you burn with the fury of a falling meteor. Malice the Thought breathes deeply, huffing the electric vapors of conflict. You silently vow to destroy Damon’s entire life and erase his very legacy from the Earth. You snap at him. You tell him to scrub the drain under the dishwasher and to avoid bothering you until this tribulation is complete. In return, you receive a hurt look and a nod.
Damon does get the drain sparkling clean, and it only takes him three smoke breaks. The rest of the crew arrives and lunch service starts. Customers trickle in. Cooks and servers spring into action. You feel a little twinge of pride observing the well-oiled machine of the restaurant you created. You slip away to hide in the stuffy office under the stairs and text your funny-looking boyfriend, Jeff. He’s at work, too, but he’s a security guard. You wonder how the always-energetic Jeff can possibly put up with a job that has him sitting in a chair doing nothing for nearly eight hours. You don’t wonder too hard, though. You’re happy that he’s always available and responsive.
Our Thoughts are wriggling under the office door and climbing the file cabinet. Malice and Regret are resuming their snuggles while Hunger’sstruggles to squeeze his bulk into the room. There is an atmosphere of things ending. Maybe this is not the Moment approaching, the Thoughts think, but it could still be fun to watch you break up with Jeff. Would he get upset? Maybe he’d cry? The Thoughts hoped he would cry.
You don’t break up with Jeff. You like Jeff. You think you might break up with him eventually, but not because he’s funny looking. He is, but you’ve never noticed. You fall asleep with your head on the desk and drool a little on the produce invoice. You begin to dream. Our Thoughts are still with you. The Thoughts close their beady little eyes and appear behind you in your dream. You are walking across a room in a strange house. Our Thoughts admire the elaborate carvings that adorn the mantel you are walking past. A fire burns, twitchy and translucent, in the fireplace. You peer absently at the arch of a cathedral ceiling. Night darkens the picture windows and skylights. The lights of the golden chandelier are dim. You note, with detached distress, that you are not wearing pants.
The doorbell rings and the Thoughts follow you as you float across the hall and open the huge front door. You become distracted, in the process of opening the door. You have registered the gritty sensation of your arms being coated in granulated sugar, up to the elbows. You are examining your glittering sweetened forearms, flexing your fingers.
You look up and see the figure waiting on the doorstep. It is a woman. Her dark hair and eyes are painted playfully with the soft blur of full moon light. She wears a dress speckled with earthy autumn colors. She is scowling at you. She rests her hands on her hips. She is impatiently tapping her foot. Our Thoughts gasp at the sight of her, hopeful that the Moment has finally come. The dream evaporates with a knock on the office door.
“Customer wants to talk to you,” Damon says.
“Huh?” You ask.
“A lady. Might be homeless. Says you promised her a free meal.”
“Oh, okay, thanks.” You rub your eyes and march toward the dining room.
“You don’t have to pay,” You say, “It’s on the house.”
“I’ll take the free food, but I’m here to warn you.” The woman gestures toward the other chair at her table. You don’t know why you sit. You screech the chair forward and the woman smiles approvingly at you around a bite of sandwich.
Hunger is watching jealously as you snatch a french fry off of the woman’s plate. You munch on it and give the mysterious woman a ‘go ahead’ gesture. She smirks and says, “You’re dead tomorrow. No changing it now. Could have changed it if you had listened to me this morning.”
“If that’s true, then why are you still here to warn me?”
“If I don’t warn you, I don’t get paid.”
“Paid?” You ask, suddenly more interested. “By who?”
“Whom.”
“By whom?” You ask. Our Thoughts edge closer.
“You. Your ghost came to my house yesterday and explained what would happen. Told me to tell you. You said to order this sandwich (which is terrible by the way), and claimed there was a reward in it for me if I could warn you before you died.”
“Allllrighty. Have a nice day, ma’am.” You don’t have time for this junk, you think.
“Yeah, you said you’d say that. And then you told me to tell you that in the third grade, it was you who wrote that nasty message about Makenzie Knight on the bathroom wall.”
A flush of hot shame travels across your skin. “How would you know that?” You demand to know. You are angry. An old fury has decayed in the intervening years, but it is still strong. That indignation at the unfairness of a teacher’s unilateral punishment is back and burning inside.
“It’s like I said: You told me.” The madwoman in front of you smiles a smile that is somehow a spiral. It curls her face uncomfortably. You are cool. So cool. But how cool are you, really? Our Thoughts are watching your face closely for a sign of nervousness. They note that one of your lips is twitching. Malice smiles.
“So, what am I supposed to do about it?” You ask, feeling yourself cave under the weight of an obvious delusion.
“Live it up, I guess. It’s your last day on Earth.” With that, the mysterious woman gets up from her chair. She slaps away on her sandals and walks out of what’s left of your life. You slump and sigh.
A defiant rush of angry vitality pulls you out of your chair. You aimlessly stroll off in the direction of the kitchen. You see that the kitchen is empty. The crew is missing. Certainly, Damon’s just gone to smoke. A shrill little timer is going off. There’s smoke coming from one of the ovens. A pot is boiling over on the range. The foaming liquid inside spits fat brown bubbles of goo onto the sputtering flames below. You walk past all of this, barely registering your surroundings.
You walk up the stairs and out the back door. Damon sees you and begins the hurried extinguishing of his cigarette. He pockets his phone, pretending that he hadn’t just been watching the same 10 second video on repeat for several minutes. He straightens up and makes for the door. You stop him.
“Can I have one of those?” You ask, “I think I might need one.”
“Whoa. uhh… I’m not sure… maybe you shouldn’t….” He is holding the scarlet pack and you snatch it out of his hand. Damon look apprehensive as you pull out a cigarette and place it between your lips. He lights it for you. You cough. “Are you… uhhh…”
“OK? No, I don’t think I am, Damon. Thanks, though.” You lift the cigarette as if proposing a toast.
“What happened? Was it that lady? Bad news?” He’s still eyeing the cigarette.
“It doesn’t matter. I can’t stop it.” You huff slightly, while saying this. A hitch in your throat is rising to choke you. “I can’t–”
Our Thoughts gasp. The air is thick with the taste of changing. This must be the moment. Damon puts his hand on your shoulder. “Hey,” He says, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“Just go inside,” You say. “The barbecue sauce is burning.”
“Oh god!” Damon shouts as he takes off running. The door slams behind him and the distant sounds of traffic woosh gently through your pounding ears.
You lean against the brick wall of the restaurant, taking a drag from your cigarette. The smoke fills your lungs and you exhale slowly, feeling the tension start to melt away. It’s been a rough day, and you just need a moment to yourself.
Suddenly, you hear a rustling behind you. You turn to see Jeff, your funny-looking boyfriend, standing there with a grin on his face. “Hey there, beautiful,” he says with a playful tone.
You roll your eyes and take another drag, trying to ignore him. Jeff always had a way of lightening the mood, even when you didn’t want it to be lightened. “What are you doing here?” you ask, your voice tinged with annoyance.
“I’ve been thinking about you a lot,” Jeff replies, walking closer to you. He points at the cigarette. “You know, smoking is bad for you.”
You shake your head. “I don’t need a lecture, Jeff.” He holds up his hands in surrender.
You sigh and take one last pull from your cigarette before flicking it to the ground. He nods, his expression turning serious. “Hey, Faye, can we talk for a minute?”
Your heart starts to race, wondering what Jeff wants to talk about. “Sure,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady.
“I think about you all the time,” Jeff says, taking your hand in his. “I want you to know that.”
You feel a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. Jeff may be funny-looking, but he is also incredibly sweet. “I really like you too, Jeff,” You say, squeezing his hand. You feel a warmth spreading through you, realizing that Jeff is someone you could really see a future with. You lean in for a kiss.
As you wrap your arms around him, you feel a cold hard protuberance poking you in the ribs. An explosion occurs within your body. The sound is a dense cloud of vibration, shaking each of your bones separately. Our Thoughts are enthralled. The Moment is finally here! Malice and Regret hold each other tight and watch your face contort into masks of pain and confusion. Our Thoughts are not Prayers. They cannot help you. They wouldn’t, even if they could.
You’re falling to the ground now, eyes locked onto the pistol in Jeff’s right hand. “Why?” You mouth silently to him.
“I thought it through. It’s the only way.” He kneels down and strokes your face. His hand feels insanely hot. “I’m not doing this out of malice. I promise.”
Our Thoughts gather around your head, looking down at your lifeless eyes glassing over. You fade out of the world and you are suddenly standing at the door of a small house. Our Thoughts are standing behind you, wondering where death has transported you all. It smells a lot like yesterday. You knock on the door.
The mysterious woman answers. You knew she would. You open your mouth. You want to beg. You want to ask her to go warn you, to hurry. You feel like you should mention a sandwich. It’s becoming hard for you to think. Your Thoughts are becoming ours. Hunger rubs his belly and licks his lips.
“Wait!” You cry out. Something is occurring to you, but it’s flowing in the wrong direction. Your arms are dissolving. Your flesh is rotting away into granules. Time unspools around you. A ticking sound is wiggling through your brain at a metronomic trot. The smoke that was billowing from an oven is being sucked back inside. The thick brown bubbles of a barbecue sauce leap back into a blackened pot and reconstitute themselves. The drain under the dishwasher resplatters with grey muck. Dough falls, unkneads itself, and splits apart into orderly piles of ingredients.
You take a huge ragged breath. Your eyes open. The pain in your chest is gone. You drop the cambro full of flour that you have been holding. You look around. It’s morning in the restaurant. A steaming cup of chai latte sits on the table beside you. The face of your funny-looking boyfriend Jeff is snarling inside your mind. A doorbell rings. A cloud of white powder is flung into the air. Your shoes are striking the stairs and your hands are pushing the back door open.
You emerge into the fresh air and run. You are free. You feel so young and so full of potential. You don’t remember why you are running but you remember that it is essential to your survival. Our Thoughts are still with you. They struggle to keep up, but now they will never leave you. You are thinking of your escape from work as a “second chance,” but you know that’s not quite right. Regret is hot on your heels. The waning essence of a nightmare is leaking away from you. Malice and Hunger lock eyes with one another. They think that this is only a momentary delay.
Sean Monett is a cartoonist from Knoxville, TN. His poetry has been featured in Plum Tree Tavern and Imaginary Gardens. He has been voted the world’s tallest hermit for three years in a row. He has been a dishwasher to the stars, a bus driver, and an auto technician, and is currently a rubber duck detective specializing in jellyfish and spaghetti. He resides in Knoxville with his son and two cats. You can find his comics online at Nonsense Poetry Comics.
