And for Lunch, Earl Grey

Christina Marie Mariani, United States

She thought about her lunch, carefully packed all morning as she sat at her desk. It was an ordinary office job like any other. If people asked what she did, she didn’t think she would really be able to answer. It was all terribly dull, terribly uninspiring. 

She thought about her lunch when she first arrived at the office, dragging her weary body to the electric kettle for her second cup of tea for the day. The first had been rushed back in her parents’ kitchen. The liquid nearly burned her tongue in her haste. 

Her mother had given her a pointed look. “Always rushing. Never any time for breakfast.” 

In response, she had simply rolled her eyes, placing her cup in the sink. Her mother didn’t understand the things she had to sacrifice—breakfast being one of them—to keep her decent-paying job. To help pay the bills at home. 

Her lunch bag sat next to the rice cooker, as it did every morning. The switch had already flipped up to warming and had probably been like that at least a half hour before she even came downstairs. She almost contemplated leaving the packed lunch in her rush to get to work on time. But the usual stab of guilt in her stomach—or maybe it was hunger—convinced her to grab it before she left. 

The few times she “forgot,” her mother had scolded her about spending on an overpriced sandwich when she always had a perfectly good lunch already prepared for her. 

“But everyone else in the office goes to this place during lunch! Don’t you want your daughter to get a better paying position?” 

“They’re wasting their money.” 

She thought about her lunch, sitting now before her on her desk. Her coworkers had often frequented the salad joint across the street from her office. When she first started out, she often received invites to join them but had to politely turn them down, pointing to her already existing lunch. 

“My mother will be upset if I don’t eat it.” 

They always looked like they had wanted to say something, but even they wouldn’t dare go against a mother’s wishes outright. They didn’t know they would never be close enough to do so. And with each rejected invite, they asked less and less. 

Her supervisor had even gently tried to encourage her to join them, hinting at a perceived lack of willingness before he, too, gave up. 

She had learned not to mind it. Besides, she always got more done when everyone else was out for that hour or so. And at every performance meeting, she continued to beat her targeted metrics. To fire her for a perceived lack of willingness to get along would contradict the very real numbers she produced for them. 

Her lunch was rice that day. It was rice every day with some variations of vegetables and a protein. This time, it was topped with minced pork in a spicy sauce, coupled with pieces of steamed broccoli. 

It settled in her stomach, along with a sip of her third cup of tea for the day. It had grown slightly cold in its paper cup but was drinkable all the same. 

She turned back to her computer screen, resuming to review the report she had been sent. Typing in numbers, correcting mistakes; these were all easy routine things for her. The newer program was supposed to autosave, but, too terrified of losing her work, she persisted in her habit of making sure to save it every few minutes. 

Save, mouthful of rice, save, mouthful of pork, save, mouthful of broccoli—  

Her screen froze for a split second. It was so brief that she thought perhaps she had imagined it. She continued to type. It froze again. She jiggled her mouse. The cursor remained stuck. She clicked a few times. Nothing. Before she could check to see if it was perhaps a problem with her monitor, the screen went dark. 

And the lights around her with it. 

The only source of light came streaming in through the large glass windows. She used to think that having such windows was indicative of a good company. 

“We have big glass windows at the office, ma. It’s not a prison.” 

But that was before she learned that most of these offices, with their big shiny windows, only looked out to other high-rise office buildings with their own big shiny windows. Reflections of themselves, with few actually ever peering into the mirror. 

She had become shrouded in grey. The rays of the sun did not reach very far on the office floor; the sun was only at its noontime peak after all. The lack of artificial light from the fluorescent bulbs and LED screens cast her world into a weird haze, like the Earl Grey sitting in her cup. The office blend wasn’t that great to begin with. It was always overly bitter, the thin notes of bergamot always lost in the smokiness of the black tea. 

And yet she always gravitated back to it. The hint of citrus reminded her of summer days and peeled orange slices, grapefruit, and pomelo. 

“Don’t eat all at once. You’ll get sick,” her dad would tease. 

Her mom would laugh, handing her a napkin. “It won’t disappear on you.” 

She thought of her mom sitting at the kitchen table, standing by the counter, spooning rice into plastic containers, thermoses, or lunch boxes. When she was younger, in high school, there would be two packed lunches sitting on the counter every morning. 

Now it was only one. 

She checked her cell phone; it still had cellular service. Perhaps it was only the building then. She texted her boss, updating him on the situation. The reply was quick: “Come grab lunch with me at the salad place across the street. There’s no use being in the office. ” 

Looking between her phone and her unfinished lunch, she reluctantly stood and reached for her bag. As she packed up her lunchbox, she could already hear her mother’s questioning voice when she saw the uneaten contents. She would just have to explain that she couldn’t really refuse her boss and only hope that she’d be forgiven for her crime of wasting food. 

Stepping into the salad place was exhilarating. It beckoned to her in all of its modern glory, with its polished white countertops, wooden tables, and green tiled walls. She quickly spotted her manager at a table. It only sat two. 

Looking up, he waved her over. She walked over, suddenly shy. Stupidly, she had been under the impression that it would be a larger group. 

Fishing her wallet out, she motioned to the counter with the kiosk to order. “I’ll be back,” she said.

He nodded, returning to his Caesar salad. 

Clicking through the menu, she was surprised at how pricy the items actually were, but quickly settled on the summer salad, a grilled chicken salad with corn. She took the receipt, vowing to tear it up before heading home.

When her number was called, she thanked the worker who set the bowl on the counter and pointed to the utensils. The photos made it look so much better than the real thing, she thought. The lettuce had looked so crisp, but in reality, it was slightly wilted, and the chicken was generously over-charred. 

“I’m glad you joined me this time. It was getting kind of lonely,” her boss laughed when she rejoined him. 

She glanced around; most people were sitting by themselves, scrolling through their phones. A few were sitting in pairs, chatting about something. All the words kind of blended together in a mangled mess of murmurs. An overly cheery pop song played through the speakers. 

He pointed to her salad. “Is this your first time here?” 

She nodded. “I usually bring my own lunch, so I’ve never really come to a place like this.” 

“Ah yes, you and your homemade lunches. You make them yourself?”

“Actually, my mom does,” she responded before she could be embarrassed to admit such a thing. 

“You live with your parents then?” 

She stuffed a forkful of lettuce into her mouth to give herself time to answer. 

“You’re young. It’s hard these days.” 

As if sensing her struggle to respond, he continued, “But you work hard. That’s good. We need more people like you.” 

“Like me?”

“Diligent, conscientious, efficient.”

She murmured her thanks. 

“Just keep it up and I can see you having a successful career here,” he said, gesturing with his hand to emphasize his words.  “It would be even better if you were a bit more sociable though.” 

She froze. 

“Smiled a bit more here and there, you know? Show them you’re easy.” 

Her salad seemed stale in her mouth. 

“I could help with that, if you really want it.” 

She put her fork down. 

“What are you saying?”

“C’mon, you’re not stupid. I think you know what I’m saying.” 

A pause. 

“Unless, of course, you would rather keep your current title and salary for a while.” 

Suddenly, she couldn’t stomach the thought of finishing the salad before her anymore. 

She thought about her lunch that she had left on her desk back in the office. She thought about her lunch, the one that her mother prepared for her day after day without fail. She thought about her lunch, and she wanted to be anywhere but here. 

“I have to go.” She stood, taking her salad and bag with her. 

“Wait!” He rose as well, reaching out to her, but she barely gave him the chance before she was out the door. 

She walked. And walked and walked and walked until she reached the riverfront. Spotting a garbage can nearby, she decisively tossed the salad away. Wasted food be damned. Let it all rot. 

She found an empty park bench and, readjusting her bag on her shoulder, plopped down onto it. 

She was certain she would be fired when she returned to the office. Nobody really knew her to vouch for her anyway. She glanced up at the sky. It was so blue. How had she not noticed that before? 

She could stay here forever. 

She closed her eyes, letting her face soak in the afternoon rays. And then she was ten again, sitting on park benches with her father. She would see other kids with their ice cream cones and beg him to get her one. 

“Aiyah, we have dessert at home,” he would say. 

The dessert in question was usually fruit. If there was a special occasion, then sometimes it was a pudding or jelly. 

There was no way for her to know then that the only reason why her dad was able to take her to sit on park benches was because he had lost his job. That the reason he never bought her ice cream was because he was relying on his in-laws to stock their fridge. He had managed to disguise that one summer of his unemployment behind citrus fruits and walks to the river. 

Her mother still made him lunch, hoping that it would convince him to get serious about finding a new job. It wasn’t until she managed to snag a minimum wage job at a nearby grocery store that he felt any motivation to apply. 

“I just walked in and asked if they were looking for people!” her mom said when asked about it. 

By that late fall, he had secured a new position and her mother was able to reduce her hours, returning to making them—both husband and daughter—lunches in the morning.

His depression—she knew that was what it was now—had grown dormant as he threw himself into his work. He was rarely around after that. She would only see him grab his lunch before she left for school, and he would return home when she had already locked herself up in her room for the night, studying. 

And then one day, when she was away at college, her mom called in the middle of a class. 

“Baba is gone.” 

There was little emotion detectable in her voice, but all the same, there was a heaviness that she hadn’t heard since her father’s unemployment. 

Those last few months, he often took longer breaks at work, his boss told them. He stopped arriving early, clocking in and out on the dot. Her mother had no idea, as he still left and returned at the same time as he always did. 

In the letter he left behind, he admitted that he would sit on a park bench instead of coming home. 

She had stayed away from sitting on park benches after that. They were so ordinary. So haunted. But sitting here now, she could see the appeal. She imagined her father resting his weary bones, staring out at the water, contemplating tossing the heavy weight of living into the river to flow downstream with hopes of reaching that vast, vast ocean. 

She thought about her lunch and how she would try to salvage it from the office before turning in her badge. She thought about her lunch and all the other lunches that came before and would come after. She thought about her lunch and picked up her phone, dialing the only number she had truly memorized. 

Her mom picked up on the second ring. 

“Ma, let’s go get ice cream tonight.” 

Her mother was silent on the other side for a while. 

“Okay. We’ll get ice cream from that place down the street you always wanted to go to.”

“I’m quitting my job.” 

“Okay. So, you’ll finally have time to eat breakfast then.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I will.” 

“Come home. Don’t forget. Ice cream.” 

“I will, I will.” 

“Good. Good.” There was a slight pause, and then relief in her voice. “Come home soon.”

Since graduating with a B.A. in journalism and Asian/Asian American Studies, Christina is learning how to enjoy writing again. May be found with a cup of tea or lost in thought.