noodle soup

Jane's seclusion had begun before the world dilemma. A series of defeating events created a profound change in her perspective, so profound that she left both job and boyfriend and moved back in with her mother. Six months after gracing her mother's front porch, she was still there. Wedged as usual into the corner of the sofa she observed herself reaching for her go to meal, a sleeve of Maria's biscuits propped up by the lamp.

She'd always assumed that existential crises were reserved for other people, it was such a strange thing to be observing one's actions. Stranger still to be observing that one was observing one's actions. Everything was becoming three or four times removed. She wondered how many further removals there would be before she ended up in another galaxy.

Shifting positions she was reminded of the subtle pains her body had developed, a persistent flu like ache had invaded her muscles and spinal column. The ache of immobility.

Truth of her predicament was not entirely lost on Jane she was after all the daughter of nurse. She knew what would happen if this depressive pattern of sleep and television persisted. Of late she had felt a sort of restless chafing at this barrier which prevented her from returning to her former self, this constant lethargy and refusal to engage in life outside of this room. Other than the updates her mother forced upon her (as well as the occasional real meal) she did not engage with current affairs and stayed resolutely away from any talk of numbers and protocols and death. Thankfully Jane had few expectations of her parent outside of provision of shelter, which was good because her mother practically slept at the hospital because of the world crisis.

She ate a few more cookies and flicked at the channels, eyes glazed. She must have passed out because she found herself suddenly awake, jolted from sleep by a familiar foreboding. Before her eyes were even open she could sense a slight rustling, a whispery scrabbling on the ceiling above her head. She wished she were dreaming. The same feeling of imminent horror enveloped her as had the during that first actual dream months ago. Her skin became clammy with the realization that her recurrent dream was in this instance, not a dream. Jane gingerly slid from the couch and backed away until she'd reached the hallway then looked fully at the ceiling. Directly above the couch, like in that awful first dream were hundreds of brown moths. A panicked futility gripped her as she backed away even further, willing these apparitions on their way. Jane could summon any rational thought, only the thought of escape.

Rummaging blindly in the coat closet she put on some dusty old air Jordan's and the black wool military overcoat from one of her dad's side cousins who'd worked the vintage circles ages ago. She had begun wearing it on forced grocery store excursions. It felt like a tent, a weighted armour of sorts and when she put up the collar it partially hid her face. She dug around frantically in the back for something to put on her head and came up with a fitted black baseball cap, another relic, this one from high school. fortified by these pieces of her inner city youth she edged along the wall farthest from the writhing sea of insects. She flicked off the living room light and made her way to the back door, finding it ajar. How the door had become open to let in the world's supply of month's was not something she wanted to contemplate right then so she let herself out leaving the door the way she found it.

Jane was almost to the front garden when she turned back, remembering to turn on the porch light. Maybe they'd leave on their own. The air held a gentle dampness, a slight breeze made silent by the very early morning Her neighbourhood had mighty trees, most of them were entirely bare, a damp carpet of shed leaves smelling of pleasant decay. she thought of just going around the block a few times but when she spied a taxi coming she went on a whim, raising a tired arm to wave him down.

The driver appeared to be an older Somali man. He said a soft hello from behind the plastic partition. As she climbed in, stooped as the invalid she'd become, she realized she hadn't been anywhere in months. Not really, not counting the times her mother made her go to the store. The driver wanted to know where to take her. Jane felt suddenly famished. She would find some food, but the only all night restaurant she could think of in a flash was a Vietnamese noodle place she and the old boyfriend had once frequented. Travelling past the big mall toward Chinatown she realized that she'd forgotten about the effects of the world catastrophe. Would the noodle place still be open right now? Or even at all anymore? She pushed these thoughts of real time consequence out of her head and sank deeper into the seat feeling as she did a slight pressure at her rear. Thinking it was the buckle of the seat belt she reached behind her to move it out of the way and found that it was not the seat belt but a small black notebook. Flipping through it in the dim light of the cab she saw that it seemed to be filled with maps and drawings. they were nearing the noodle spot so she put the notebook in her pocket for perusal later.

The driver let her out across the street from the restaurant which was blessedly still open. She went in and ordered her soup. They kindly let her wait inside. It didn't take long for her order to be up and she departed with thoughts of where on earth she would eat it. Images of the living room ceiling made her choose instead a seat at a deserted streetcar stop. The soup came in pieces which you had to assemble, due to it not travelling well and the noodles getting soggy before their time. Thus assembled Jane performed the final task of squeezing a lime into the bowl. Balancing it in one hand, she picked up her spoon and breathed in carefully. Noodle soup is an olfactory experience in a way that other foods can never be. The first spoonful brought with it a raw awareness, she felt as if her veins were filling up with blood. She tried not to cry.

After the soup revival her surroundings seemed sharper, fuller, closer. Jane sat back against the glass partition and listened to the city for a while before she remembered the book in her pocket. Maybe it's owner had left an address. She'd return it right now, if it were close enough. The drawings were good, intricate mythological mandala like renderings, and towards the back, the beginnings of a proposal. Maybe for a collection or a show. Flipping to the back inside cover she found a name and address. The place wasn't far, she dumped all the empty soup things into the bag they came in and strolled off to the north, she'd cut through the Market before veering westward to the address in the notebook. She stopped at an overstuffed trashcan to get rid of her dishes and jammed them into the tiny space still available when a folded over black vinyl pouch dislodged itself from inside the base of the bin. Pausing a moment, losing out over the urge to see what it was she picked it up, opened it and took a look. She immediately closed the bag, stuffed it in her pocket and hurried up the main drag to a side street before she glanced back around the corner to see if anyone was following her. Or watching, but nothing. It was a ghost town. The government hadn't imposed a real curfew just the suggestion of one which people mainly accepted as necessary.

She dug around in the bag again. Yes, this was two stacks of new bills, plastic green twenties. Which meant she was holding twenty thousand dollars. She dug around some more and hit a layer of plastic, she took out a large zip lock freezer bag filled with little pills. Nauseous now, she stuffed it all back into the bag and in her pocket. She needed to think. Walking through the Market her mind went in many directions, the mains one being that the person who hid this would come back for it, and people whose business this was would likely be violent and scary. She returned to her original plan of returning the notebook, she needed to put space between her and Chinatown. The envelope was clearly filled with some kind of illicit drug, which meant she had to dispose of it quickly, as well as the money but one couldn't just dump stuff like that down the sewer. Jane sighed, it would have to be the police.

Jane kept north, taking a few side streets westward as she came to the neighbourhood she was seeking. It was still a few hours before dawn. Too early to be knocking on anyone's door. She'd just leave the book in the mailbox and go. Approaching the the house she saw it was one of those tallish Victorian types which had been separated into apartments. A bit rough looking this one, the front steps neglected and sagging. The apartment she wanted was out back, claimed a sign on the main mailbox so around she went, making herself as quiet as she could. Rounding the corner she froze in her tracks. Ahead of her in the back garden stood a man, larger than any she'd ever seen. She stood still. He stood still. this went on for a minute before Jane began to explain her presence in the backyard. When he didn't answer or move she moved closer, surprised to find he was made of rusted metal, a sculpture and up close wonderfully composed and quite beautiful, but with the air of the forgotten, abandoned to some liminal state. Compelled by this unfathomable night Jane crept around the metal man up the back steps and bent over to slide the book through the mail slot in the door, then she got out the twenty thousand and stuffed it too through the mail slot. As she straightened up to beat it out of there before anyone saw her loitering she noticed, etched into the glass of the transom a repeated motif. Moths.