Anakaren Aviles: Late Night Snack

Time seems agitated. The dull lights and quiet rotations prolong, as if to provoke my hunger. Time holds a grudge; I’m supposed to be asleep. The dark rings under my eyes speak for themselves. I don’t want to be reminded of my insomnia. I want cooked noodles, and I want them—Ring!

The telltale sound wakes up the whole house. Whatever. A small price to pay to feed a starving teen. Without wasting a second, I take out the bowl, which is some off-brand noodles that unfortunately aren’t Buldak. It’d have to do. Every plea to my mom begging for the spicy carbonara packs is an uphill battle. Whenever she gets particularly kind, it leads to moments like these: me staring blankly at the metal contraption that only heats up to 990 watts.

The stove is boiling. I sigh. So many dishes to be washed for one simple meal. What happened to just chucking the plastic cup in there and having a ready-made meal in 2-4 minutes? I roll my eyes. The process seems to get more gourmet as the quality itself lags behind. I stop complaining and get to cooking. The eggs are almost ready.

I peer into the metal pot. The eggs are gurgling. I sidestep my dad’s off-white cooler. 6 minutes. Take them out. Waterboard them under freezing water. Two minutes each. Take them out too. Crack on counter. Peel them. 

Peel them impatiently. Rinse off eggshells but miss a few. Dunk them in ramen. Slice open eggs to blend yolk into broth. Eat ramen. Eat eggshells with ramen. Sigh but continue. Get pissed at ramen even though it’s your fault.

I look at the microwave’s clock. 3:07. I move to the table. I keep moving Dad’s remnants—his work tools-–so that I have space to contemplate.

My meal is only a little miserable—just how I like it. I’m left to my thoughts and my overactive cat. She looks at me as her pupils dilate. I slyly move my bowl away. I make sure to put Dad’s metal clipboard to the side, so that the heathen won’t taint it and chew the corners off. 

I look at the eggs. They’re not sunny side up, happy smiles; there’s no face hidden in the white. I stop my tentative chewing. There’s no face hidden in them, but this whole meal reeks of the original chef. I throw the leftovers seasoned with eggshells away. Abandoning it. I clear my thoughts. She doesn’t deserve my peace of mind.

The next night, weeks later, is even slower. The table is languid, my eyes are blurry, and I have that crust around the corners of my eyes. I try to wipe the drowsiness off my face. There’s not much fanfare as I sit down in the wooden chair. I wince. I pulled a muscle again. I’m too young for back pain, I think, but that doesn’t make it go away.

I try massaging the ache away. I quickly gave up. I think of Dad’s own hand inching towards his back, sighing with relief whenever he’s not given work. I redirect my efforts into my stomach. It’s empty. Growling. Wanting. I close my eyes, furrow my brows. I don’t know what to feed it.

The fridge stares back at me. My eyes lazily scan over the Tupperware. In truth, I don’t know what I’m craving. If I was smarter, I’d have realized all I needed was water. I take the jug out. I pour some cold water from the pitcher into my cup anyway, determined to have at least one healthy habit. The water seems to run on forever. My eyes are drooping. All that can be heard is the precious sound of liquid, and Dad’s snores.

I return to the fridge, putting the pitcher back inside, before I eye it. Strawberries. Something about their premature ripeness makes me seethe. I grab them anyway. I groan internally; they won’t be sweet.

I sit back down. It’s 4:13. The trees seemed to be as stiff as dried wax, barely mendable and pliant. I try to bend time back to normal. It won’t listen.

The strawberries’ seeds all stare back at me. They want to open up and swallow me. There’s a strawberry that has morphed into another like conjoined twins. Bound by the hip. I find it funny that there isn’t a third included in their duo.

Little duo. I used to be the tallest one. I always poked fun at our height differences. She’d look at her as she ate them, eating her packed strawberries every day at lunch. It was her favorite. They used to be my favorite too. 

The snoring stops. 4:30. Who am I kidding? There’s plenty of space in between those too. In fact, it looks like the first strawberry’s tip was reaching out for another, as if they wanted to be conjoined to someone else. If that’s the case, why is it conjoined to her? We used to talk daily, visit each other’s house weekly, and stay on call for 10 hours straight. Strawberry girl would turn red when Ramen girl always sat by me. She would eat her strawberries, biting into them so hard the red intestines oozed out. Then, her eyes caught a happy gleam. She was never looking at me.

I hear shifting. These steps are familiar. Mom’s awake. I hastily get up, abandon the strawberries as quickly as they abandoned me, and shove them back into the fridge. They were bitter. 

I briefly hear Dad open his bedroom door, ready in his uniform. I close my own bedroom door and return to where time is present and never absent.

The third night is stagnant. My eyes are blank. Dull. The eyebags are pronounced. If the light hits them right, they look pretty. I briefly saw what Ramen Girl saw in me. My cat is doing figure eights around my legs. A little chirp. I sink into the couch. I forgot how I got there. 4:39. I feel my own eyes roll up. My body wants rest; I want more.

I faceplant on the couch. I do the only thing that can stave off my boredom: think. If I wait to eat later, I’ll be too nervous to eat. I should eat now, when I have the appetite. The moon is winking at me. My cat’s as still as a statue. The towels on the chairs are the same. The clock isn’t moving.

I’m the only factor. The fridge is sick of looking at my face. I know what I want. I grab it, before I change my mind. I sit on the couch instead of the chair. I’m looking to the night, but the night can’t move. Bound by shifts maybe. I open the lid on the styrofoam cup. I hate heating leftovers up. It always turns good things sour. I take my metal spoon and dig in. My eyes are refusing to cooperate. My cat returns to bed. I want the clock to be frozen forever.

Dad’s wallet is on the table. Dad’s lunch is in the cooler. The only light that’s present is that of the stove. Blue. I blink away. 5:00. The door opens. 

Dad’s in uniform. I keep eating my elote, hoping to better mix the mayonnaise. I chip away at the queso fresco without mercy. 

Dad’s, understandably, upset that I’m not in bed. He’s smiling, a small, gentle thing. I look to my bedroom door. He sighs. He laces his worn boots into less of a tripping hazard. That doesn’t make the conversation go smoother. It’s the first time we’ve exchanged words in a while. I watch him move to the kitchen. Mom will soon follow.

He grabs his keys. His wallet. His cooler. As he bends down for the handle, he wavers. I know he’s holding a wince. He never complains. I make sure he has water bottles. I don’t want him fainting again. 

The light is bathing him in a halo. I look away. That isn’t fair. Martyrs aren’t angels. Who gave him the bright idea to keep working?

The strawberries are gone. I finished my last ramen packet. Was this some sick game of rock-paper-scissors? Everyone’s always bitter on behalf of someone else. 

Dad’s looking at me; I’m thinking of bolting to my door, forgoing the elote altogether. I’m the only factor. What did I do wrong?

I look to my elote and wonder who this is in remembrance for, until I caught it. A familiar styrofoam cup in Dad’s cooler. I sigh; I’m grieving more for those alive again.

The time ticks. My dad leaves. People never really go away.

About the Author:

Anakaren Aviles, 17, is a creative writing senior from Houston, Texas. She enjoys writing creative non-fiction, flash fiction, and reading magical realism. Her influences are post punk music, animated shot films, and her sister.