Not On the Menu

The buffet promised happiness, but even from the sidewalk, Quentin wasn’t sure if he was hungry or just tired of himself.

He stood at the door and looked up at the sign that read All You Can Eat Fulfillment. It buzzed too loud for this hour, spilling a pale light that made everything look clean in a way that felt off. The glow stuck to the glass like static. He didn’t move. The words meant something, probably, but he couldn’t feel it.

He didn’t know what he wanted, only that this couldn’t be all there was.

The line was too long. The woman in front of him wore lip gloss so thick it looked like a coating. Her smile stayed fixed while she picked at a plate of Reassurance, each bite smaller than the last. Once, she glanced back at him. It wasn’t flirtation. It was the look of someone who already knew how the story ended.

The air inside was thick with sweetness, the kind that curdles at the edge of pleasure. It smelled like candy left out too long, soft and a little chemical, like memory gone bad. Between the trays of Gratitude and Self-Worth came the sound of chewing, of need. He reached toward the Genuine Self-Acceptance, fingers brushing the edge of the serving spoon, then let his hand fall. That one always weighed more than it should.

He turned to the man behind him. “Do you ever wonder if any of this shit actually works?”

The guy gave a half-shrug. “I tried the Victory Sauce last time. It was fine, I guess. Didn’t last. Nothing does.”

Quentin nodded, mostly to himself. It was easier than answering.

He remembered the kitchen. The fight that had already ended before either of them stopped talking. She stood by the door, one hand on the box like it could protect her. She said he was always chasing something that didn’t exist, that she was done watching him try to fill a hole as if it were a job. Then she left. Took the plants. Left the blender. He didn’t move for a long time.

He stepped up to the counter. The attendant was waiting, motionless until he met her eyes. Then the smile switched on. She handed him a plate. It was warm, damp against his palms, and he couldn’t tell if it was from washing or from someone else’s hands. He kept his eyes on it longer than he meant to. Everything in this place was about pretending you had options.

“Choose wisely.”

Her voice had the careful sweetness of someone trained to sound kind but never meant it. Still, it hit him. For a moment he thought she was speaking only to him. The smile didn’t move.

“After ten minutes it’s all free.”

The spread was too perfect, trays of Self-Respect and Victory arranged in strict symmetry beneath the lights, while the Success Crumbs looked as if someone had measured each tidy pile with a ruler. He took some Authenticity and stared at it until it stopped looking like food, then tried a bite. There was no taste. He kept chewing, uncertain whether he was supposed to swallow or spit it out.

“What’s that he asked,” pointing toward the back of the buffet.

In the corner sat a pink mass, smooth and still under the lights. It looked out of place among the trays, too bare, too exposed. A small card beside it read The Absolute Truth. The letters looked even, refusing to settle.

The attendant didn’t even look.

“That’s not for customers,” she said already moving on to the next plate.

He’d heard a story once. Some guy tried it and wouldn’t stop shaking. Had to be carried out. People said he kept whispering about mirrors and time and a voice he couldn’t place. Maybe that was just the urban legend of this place. But looking at it now it didn’t feel like a joke.

He went closer. The air around it felt alive. It wasn’t the sweet smell of the place, it was clean and cold and right. He held his hand over it and felt a pull, not strong, just steady. For a second he thought he could taste it without touching it. He wanted to.

But no. Not today.

His stomach twisted.

He looked down at the plate in his hand. The plastic bent a little under its own weight, empty but pretending to hold something worth taking. He wasn’t hungry for any of it. The ache in him came from somewhere deeper, a kind of hunger that couldn’t be served or named, only followed.

He set the plate on the counter and stepped away. The people around him didn’t seem to notice. They were too busy chewing. Their mouths moved like they were trying to swallow time.

At the door he turned

“How do I get out of here?”

She blinked once, her expression empty of thought.

“You’re already on your way out,” she said, the words landing like fact, not kindness. Then she turned to the next person in line and passed them a plate, the motion smooth and practiced, as if he had never been there.

Outside, the neon hummed against the dark. The parking lot stretched out, flat and colorless, a spill of light that reached nowhere. His phone buzzed in his hand. Another ad. The same logo. The same promise he’d already stopped believing. He dropped it in a trash can and kept walking.

He didn’t want what was left on the tables. He wanted something they’d never learned to make, something that couldn’t be ordered or served. He stood there for a moment, the thought rising before he could stop it. Maybe tomorrow.