Food waste

A work of short fiction by Sara Hendricks.

Every time I begin feeling wistful for Max, and think maybe I should text him to see if we can work things out after all, I remember the time he dumped all that spaghetti in the garbage. He had just cooked for me for the first time, pasta with vegetables mixed in and meatballs on the side because I don’t eat meat but sometimes I do, and I ate my share plus seconds to show that I really liked it and I wasn’t just saying that. 

After, there were still two or three fingers of spaghetti in the pot on the stove, drying out but still perfectly edible. When we were cleaning, I saw him scoop up the spaghetti with his hands and place it in the trash can under the sink, like he was plating it for the garbage collectors. I just stared at him. 

“What?” he said. 

“Nothing,” I said. 

Knowing now what I wish I knew then, let’s say I walked out. We can imagine that I gathered my things and left the apartment and headed straight to the park even though it was dark out and late—Max and I kept Spanish dinner hours—and I might get killed. 

In fact, I almost was. Walking through the park in the pitch black, I was approached by a prowler, holding a knife to my throat with intent to kill. “But wait,” I said, trembling against the knife tip. “This guy I’m seeing just made me dinner, but then he threw perfectly good spaghetti in the trash.” 

“Is he your boyfriend?” the prowler said. 

“I don’t know,” I said. “Also, he threw the spaghetti away with his hands.”

“That sounds traumatizing,” they said. 

“Thank you,” I said. 

They lowered the knife and turned around. 

Story continues below

GET DIGITALLY DRESSED

DRAUP is a fashion house dressing your internet identities.

DRAUP is offering Dirt readers the opportunity to get digitally dressed in the TRASH TRENCH, a limited edition digital fashion piece inspired by TRASH.

Want to wear it? Simply sign up, and send us a picture. Our digital tailors will fit the garment to form.

Our closet is your portal to the future.

Now that I could move freely, I kept walking, not stopping until I came across an urban park ranger. He was carrying a swan the government suspected had avian flu. We don’t have to worry about why he was alone in the park late at night, far past standard ranger hours. 

He did a double-take when he saw me.

“Everything OK?” he said, peering over the curve of the swan’s neck. 

“No,” I said, before telling him my story. 

“Gosh,” he said. “I don’t even know what to say.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Say—any chance you could help me break this swan’s neck?” 

“I don’t think so,” I said. 

“Fair enough,” he said, but he looked embarrassed. 

“I mean—I could probably hold it down while you twist the neck?” It seemed like the polite thing to do. 

“No. Just forget it.” He readjusted the swan and stalked off. 

As I ventured further into the park, I met a child. Left there by her parents, I assume, alone with a tea party setup. Despite it being late in the night, with prowlers and park rangers on the loose, she appeared calm and composed. 

I felt compelled to crouch down at the table, so I did. 

“Hi,” she said. “Can I get you anything?” 

I couldn’t imagine anything better than imaginary tea. I grabbed a teacup and held it out for my new friend. 

“For food, we have pancakes, cupcakes, round cake, or gum,” she said. 

“I don’t have an appetite, I’m afraid. I just saw something horrible.” I told her what had happened to me. 

“I don’t really see a problem with that.” 

Of course. She was only five or six. How stupid could I be? She probably ate plain spaghetti with her hands all the time, and would likely throw it in the trash without realizing the implications. 

“You’ll understand when you’re older.” 

“I hope not.”

I got up, feeling like an idiot. 

I plodded along for some time. I wasn’t sure if I was going straight or walking in circles. Then, there was a girl. Or woman. She looked a little like me, but I think everyone in this neighborhood looks like me. 

I sat down beside her. 

“Hi,” I said. 

She was writing in her journal, so she stopped and slotted the ribbon between the pages. “What are you doing here?” 

“Well—” I said. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to tell her. But then it all came out. “—in the trash,” I said. “With his hands.” 

I sat there, hoping for a reaction. 

“You think that’s an issue?” she said. “You should see what I have to deal with.” I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I walked away. 

It was almost morning. I started to feel lonely, and hungry too, which made me think about Max. It occurred to me that he might not be feeling lonely or hungry like me. There was a good chance that he was sound asleep, not thinking of me at all. I walked faster. 

Then I was back outside Max’s apartment building. He lived right by the park, which I always told myself was a real perk. I rang the buzzer and I can’t remember what happened after that. But I guess I said the right things, because then I was in the kitchen again, staring at the spaghetti in the garbage.

MORE TRASH