The waitress brings Thursday’s fish on Tuesday. I’ve been eating the same meal since before I started counting.
Week 939: I order vegetables. What arrives: transparent. The plate confirms an absence.
Phil stirs nothing. An hour. The coffee tastes like her wrist.
Today’s water came in a cup I’ve never seen before. My teeth feel borrowed.
The receipt says $17.50 but numbers stopped working years ago. Sometimes I hand Phil a button. He gives me change.
Next Tuesday I’ll say “shrimp.” The waitress won’t look up. I’ve stopped remembering which booth I’m in.
In the kitchen, something keeps ringing. Not a phone. Not a timer. Just the sound of Thursday trying to find its fish.