The Tortilla Incident

Tonight is date night. With myself. Again.

My regular spot, Anthony’s Eatery, is undergoing much-needed renovations. His ongoing divorce is postponing work. The divorce is messy. He’s strapped for cash. Even so, he’s been known to “forget” to ring a few items up.

I miss him more than anyone should miss a grocer. He remembers my staples, notices when I’ve had a bad day, and laughs at my bad jokes. Right now, I’m guilt-ridden because I’m shopping at Abigail’s Afdal Grocery. It popped up overnight across the street from Anthony. Afdal is Arabic for “better.”

Guess who Abigail is? Yup, his soon-to-be-ex-wife. But the spite store will have to do.

Wednesday is chicken-and-parmesan, but the thought of it feels exhausted, so I wander. I mentally tick through things to tell Anthony. It hits me that I can’t replace Anthony with anyone else. No family, friends. I shrug, moving the thought aside. I have Max at home, my tripod cat.

I’m Abigail’s only customer. She knows I’m only here because Anthony’s is closed, and she treats me like I picked the wrong side of the breakup. Her eyes track me like she’s waiting for me to shoplift. Honestly, if I farted wrong, she’d probably call the cops.

Anthony would’ve waved me over and let me try his morning batch of khubz—warm, fluffy, life-altering khubz. Abigail’s meats, on the other hand, look like they’ve given up on their dreams. Relatable.

Fine. I ponder a moment and land on spinach-artichoke dip. Anything smothered in cheese is top-tier. I grab everything, including a flour brand I’ve never heard of, Fluke’s.

At checkout, Abigail scans my items with the enthusiasm of a DMV employee. I smile; she smirks, lips pressed into one long line.

I slide to the door with my bags and can’t resist a parting shot for Anthony:

“Hope your bunions feel better.”

Her cheeks flare crimson. She gives me a one-finger review of my jab. I laugh all the way home.

Max yawns, stretches, and thrumbles over to me, chirruping his hello.

“Hey Mr. Max,” I scoop him up as I drop the day’s feelings onto his tabby fur. He hates being held—allows exactly 4.7 seconds before spasming like an eel. I clean his crusties, plant kisses all over his face, and plonk him down on the couch. “Lobster? Chicken? You know what, both.” Snacks deployed.

After a quick shower, I start making the dip—my little spinach-artichoke hope. I feel giddy, stupidly giddy. Maybe I’m just desperate for something in my life to finally turn out well.

Eh, I may be a recluse, but there’s always cheese. And Max. My furry Emergency Contact. It hits me how small my world is—how few people I have to share it with.

“Cheese tax for Mr. Max,” I toss him a few shreds of the hodgepodge of cheese. The mixture looks… reasonable. Into the oven it goes. Tortillas next.

“‘Fluke’s—Joke’s On You!’… what kind of tagline is that?”

The flour smells tangy—sharp enough to tickle my nose. Tangy isn’t normal for flour, but it gives the tortillas the perfect consistency. I shape, cook, cool, cut, and air-fry them.

The oven sings. The dip bubbles like a Michelin star masterpiece. First bites—immaculate. Max waits for his portion, but I’m not sure if he can eat this. Sensitive stomach, poor guy. I take another bite, thinking maybe I should do this more often—treat myself, make something different, pretend I’m not as lonely as I actually am.

Max judges my chip crunches he’s not getting. “It’s for the be—”

A chip catches in my throat. I cough. “Don’t,” I warn Max, grabbing water.

I sip, but… Another cough erupts. Sharper.

Max’s eyes widen and ears flick.

I take a sip of water. It doesn’t help. My tongue tingles now. My lips buzz.

I grab for the kitchen counter, miss it, grab again. My fingers feel like bulging sausages.

My breath shortens. Then shortens again.

No. No, no, no. “Okay, slow down.”

But—

Panic detonates.

“I love you, Max,” I croak. My brain unspools—what else do I need to confess?

My knees wobble.

Max meows, but it sounds like it’s underwater. I feel my ears—big and hot.

“I’m sorry,” I mumble to Max. “For stepping on your tail. Calling you a bacon gremlin. Calling you a potato with legs.”

He blinks slowly. Judging me. Fair.

I’m getting almost no oxygen. Time escapes me. The room pulses. My heartbeat is a drumline in my skull.

My knees buckle and smack the cold tile—a shock of chill rallying me back to the moment.

I stagger toward the living room. My vision doubles through the swollen eyelids. Max becomes a tabby blob following at my feet, rubbing my legs. His fur is soft, but it barely registers.

“Okay,” I whisper, “Okay. Think. Think. 911.”

My phone.

The coffee table. I reach for it. Miss. Reach again. Miss harder. My stupid, useless sausage fingers. I finally grab the phone; my thumb shakes over the screen.

I unlock the phone. The screen blurs, swims, sharpens, blurs again. I hit the screen a few times. The ringing sounds like it’s echoing in a cave.

“Jerry from IT.”

Shit. My damn fingers. “Your lasagna sucks,” I hiss into the phone. He needs to know he ruins work potlucks. I press the red blob and try dialing again.

Or I think I do. It’s so blurry. I’m so lightheaded.

How long has it been?

“Anthony’s Eatery?”

His warm lilt makes me cry. I open my mouth. Did I… tell him something? About money. Maybe about helping him. I think he thanked me. I’m not sure. My head swirls. Anthony is the closest thing to a friend I have. Besides… besides Jerry. Oh my God, Jerry is one of my closest friends?

So, so sad.

I lay down in front of the couch. Tears stream down my face.

Max curls under my shaking arm.

The phone slides and thumps to the floor. Through the blur I see it’s 3:27.

I rasp, “Max, you already try to eat plastic bags—I’ll be more nutritious.” He licks my face. “Don’t start ’til I’m actually dead, please.”

A warm sensation pools in my chest and spreads. This is it—the tunnel light moment. I drift blind, wheezing, waiting.

My body shuts down.

No light.

Just sleepy darkness.

I cry myself deeper, slipping over some invisible cliff. Then—

My body jerks.

Is that buzzing? My neck is too stiff to turn. Light bullies its way in my struggling eyes. It’s a phone screen. I still have my phone? I fumble with it, but the name is too bleary to read. I rub my eyes—less swollen. Almost normal.

I sit up—groggy, but okay. Throat raw. No cough. Did I die? Is this hell? My lame apartment? Figures.

My feet shuffle to the bathroom. Mirrors never lie.

Swelling, redness—gone.

My phone buzzes. A text. I clear the missed calls and texts. It’s 4:08.

My throat tightens. This time from fear, not from sour flour.

Is it only half an hour later? Did I… just nap off everything? That’s too easy. I think my immune system just rage-quit. Whatever that tang was hit like a truck and vanished just as fast. Fluke’s really lived up to its tagline.

I open the most recent text.

“$4,866.28 has been transferred to ANTHONY’S EATERY LLC.”

“Noooo.” Cold dread rips through my veins. My hand cups my mouth, “No, no, no, no…”

Didn’t I just imagine it? I was just mashing buttons like a drunk toddler. My oxygen-starved brain… right? I plead with myself.

I glance at the total again. That was… everything I’d saved.

Poof.

“Oh my actual God!” I shriek, grabbing onto the shower curtain to keep from falling into the tub. Wait. “I could call. And—and—no, no, I can’t ask for it back.” I lock eyes with Max in the bathroom doorway. “Could I? No… right?”

I pick up my three-legged emotional support potato and collapse onto the couch. I hold onto his squirming body. No money for rent, food, gas… anything. My eyes trace the room to the flour on the counter.

Fluke’s—Joke’s On You!

Hell yeah it was.

Touche Abigail.

My phone buzzes again:

Jerry.

His texts are inventive and very focused on my less flattering body parts. Great. I really did insult his lasagna. Still deserved.

I swipe him away.

Another text:

“Low Balance Alert: $2.86.”

Four thousand dollars gone. Gone! The gravity of the last half hour tightens around my ribs like a belt.

I scroll through my contacts—scroll is diplomatic. Outside the obligatory adult contacts, I have nobody but Anthony and Jerry in my phone. Pathetic.

A voicemail chime. I click it. Jerry is not happy.

Another call—Anthony. A surge of nausea.

“Thank you,” he gushes, “this covers the last payment—”

I make a noise that sounds like “you’re welcome” before I hang up and die—again.

Max meows, soft and worried. I scratch under his chin on his missing leg side; his nub goes wild. “You’re right—I do need friends. And a windfall of money.”

Jerry calls again. “Eek!” I toss the phone.

Max narrows his eyes at me.

I hold my hands up, “Anybody but Jerry.”

He blinks.

“He’s not a bad guy, but his lasagna—”

Max meows, stopping my petty avoidance. He’s right—I need people. I’m embarrassed I’m so alone. It has to change. I’m even more embarrassed I want the money back. But Anthony’s dealing with renovations and a divorce. It’ll be fine. Besides, I have Jerry. I do need a human Emergency Contact. Max chirrups his confirmation. I can’t believe it might be Jerry. God help me.

“You mother fu—” Jerry starts.

“Fun to talk to you, too!” I cut in, louder than him. “Listen, Jerry—just listen. Let’s join a cooking class… I don’t like you either, but we both need this.”

I glance at the flour and recoil. “And I’d like to stop almost dying from culinary experiences.”

Starting with flour. Obviously.