Food is different somehow, when someone else has left it out of the refrigerator. I mean, it's just been sitting on the counter, right? It's not cold anymore, so it's probably been there for at least a few hours. Then again, it could have been overnight. You never know, so the food changes. It's not really food anymore: it's...approaching a biohazard. No matter what it was, you're reluctant to touch it now. No telling what little nasties have been growing in the sweet-and-sour sauce between the time the previous owner set it down and you picked it up. It's a science project (what could be growing here?), instead of actual food (Hey, who left these Chinese leftovers out?).
A bitter, self-derisive snort escapes my lips, and I close the little white box thankful that no one had heard my philosophical musings on…well, on whatever. Then again, they probably wouldn't catch what it was I was really talking about, and just lock me away for actually thinking twice about this crap from the restaurant down the street. I refuse to admit to myself that I'm equating myself with said crap, but I know I am. I've been sitting out far longer than a day or two: I've been waiting here on the counter ever since my husband slipped away. Who's going to want to touch me now: there's no telling what else I've picked up, besides dust.
Somewhere out there, someone's watching me with hidden cameras and Petri dishes, to try to see what'll grow. That's what I'd tell myself, anyway, if I actually cared anymore. If I were still in high school and assumed that the world still revolved around me. But I don't, and I know that it doesn't. so I just shake my head, wanting to be rid of the whole freaky, LSD-esque rambling. I pick up the takeout box (it's lighter than I'd expected) and turn around, figuring I'd chuck it into the garbage and save the next poor soul from food poisoning.
But I spin smack into someone's chest, nearly knocking him off balance. Without thinking, I reach out with my free hand, grabbing an arm to steady him, before looking at him. When I do, I drop my hand immediately, flushing and stepping back to re-establish our respective personal bubbles. I'm about to fumble out an apology, an excuse for nearly tackling my boss, but he cuts me off with one of those looks of his, nodding at the takenout.
"Where are you taking that?" He asks, digging through the drawer and uncovering a pair of chopsticks. I look at him, and then at the food, and then at him again. Speak, Alison, I command myself, wondering when, exactly it was that I had swallowed my tongue.
"Trash," I blurt out, proud at having regained control, but feeling ridiculous for that exact pride. He arches an eyebrow, and I'll be damned, but I think my stomach may have just lurched. And not in a bad, "I-just-ate-day-old-lo-mein" way.
"I'm sure the other kids would let you sit with them if you'd ask them nicely: no need to hide during lunchtime."
I roll my eyes. Look! More control over simple body functions. I almost feel deserving of applause or something. "It's been sitting out," I inform him primly. I hate that he always makes me feel like a little schoolgirl, like a little, naïve child. "Someone could get sick." My stomach lurches again, this time in disgust at my tone of voice.
"Give it to me. I'll eat it." He shakes his head, holding his hand out. Figures. The man's always taking chances, always ignoring the rules. Then again, it's just takeout. Let him eat it. Let him get food poisoning. Then I can laugh at him, or tell him "I told you so," or nurse him back to health or whatever it is I feel most capable of doing. After a short pause, I hand the box over to him. He smirks (I blush), and digs in, leaning on the counter. "Want some?" he mumbles around a mouthful, reminding me that I'd just been standing there for several minutes, watching him shovel the food into his mouth. I blink, and shake my head to clear it. He mistakes the motion for rejection, and shakes his head. "Christ, Cameron: just because it's been sitting out, doesn't mean it's rotten and you're going to die from food poisoning." He pauses, then stops eating it altogether, jamming the wooden sticks into the container and makes a face. "Then again, it's not the best….whatever it's supposed to be. Garbage it is."
But he leaves it sitting on the counter, and hobbles out of the room. I almost feel bad, calling it that—hobbling—but there's no better way to say it, now is there? I almost feel angry (what, does he expect me to clean up after him all the time?), but then find myself fitting the chopsticks into my fingers, watching as I manage to make them open and close. Before I realize what I'm doing, or why, I've chewed and swallowed several mouthfuls of this potentially-harmful substance. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that, mere moments ago, his lips had been around these chopsticks.
But that's positively ridiculous, I tell myself, hastily closing the box yet again and dropping it into the trash can as I go in search of edible food.
But I still slip those chopsticks into my pocket.