Hungry for More

Exhaustion didn’t begin to cover the lagging sensation slowly shutting down her body.

After twelve hours on her feet, Evelin couldn’t fathom the idea of moving another muscle save for her eyelids as she slumped in front of the tv watching mind numbing reality tv.

Exiting the restaurant that had become her primary home since she spent more time within its walls than her actual house, Eveline stared out at the busy street. Christmas decorations hung from every corner and lamp poll. Every tree in the nearby area illumined the street in ways nature never intended. And with the recent downpour of a few hours ago, the streets glittered with an array of gold, silver, and rainbow shades, ruptured in intervals by car wheels spearing the puddles of the wet asphalt.

The handy umbrellas of the tables scattered across the restaurant entrance handily kept the chairs dry. She took a seat, nearly crying in stark relief. Taking a break after a long shift was a must. It allowed her body time to adjust to the sudden stop following adrenaline filled service. One time she drove off straight after work and nearly crashed as she dozed off at the wheel following the drop.

Slipping off her shoes, cool night air nipped at the humid socks. She flexed her toes, curling in tight and releasing. The exercise helped alleviate the throbbing of her aching feet. The right toe with the chronic pain stiffened for a millisecond as she lowered and raised it, smarting pain had her reaching toward it to massage it.

Ever since landing incorrectly on it during yoga, the toe never fully healed. When she spent too much time on her feet—which was weekly, to be frank—the toe resented the constant movement, aching as though it might break at the slightest touch.

With how much she worked, Eveline never checked it out at the doctor since it didn’t hurt when she rested, nor did she think it was broken. Had the toe actually been broken, she didn’t think she’d be capable of walking.

Stripping off her chef jacket, she set it on the table in a neat fold, her name sewn into the left-hand side.

She stared at the name for a long moment, Eveline Meyers Pastry Chef.

For a long time seeing the title tagged behind her name thrilled her. It was all she wanted.

Soon after high school, she didn’t know what to study. She loved music and writing but somehow going to school for either of those two didn’t seem like a plausible idea. Who would hire her after college with a degree in music or creative writing? Instead, she took three sabbatical school years off and found a desire for culinary school sitting at home watching the Food Network. The way chefs worked their magic with food astounded her, leading her to chasing the idea.

Five years later, she wondered if she did the right thing.

This time of year brought her close and personal with nostalgia and regret. She wondered at times if she truly felt regret or if it was only the time of year springing up the emotions. After all, though she was tired, she did enjoy the thrill of fast paced movement.

But goodness, some nights she wished she could send it all to hell and quit.

Then the question loomed over head, what would she do?

Bills still needed paying. Life couldn’t stop because she harbored a secret desire to ditch it all and start over.

Start fresh.

Start with what called her name after five years abstinence.

Slumped in her chair, she heard the words crowd her mind again, followed by lilts and melodies, catchy phrases that sounded clever. Strums of enticing chord progressions sounded in her ears as if played in real life and —

Wait a moment.

Perking up in her chair, she followed the sound of the guitar. Across the street, on the steps of an old church, a man in a hat and simple clothing sat with a full-length guitar propped on his leg, fingers expertly forming chords, while the other strummed a melody that rang out clearly in the quiet of the street. A guitar case opened at his feet. Few people dropped bills onto the man’s open case as they walked by.

Eveline watched the man with fondness and admiration. A fluttering in her chest and stomach had her sitting straighter. Her foot tapped along to the music, counting the beat with theory still burning bright in her mind.

Though her feet ached, and the thought of standing brought out a groan, Eveline rose from her seat, grabbed her chef coat, and walked the short distance over to where the man sat.

She wasn’t sure why she approached, or what she would say. All she knew was that the music called to her.

The closer she got, the more she recognized the chords his left hand sketched on the fretboard.

The man lifted his head, half of it shrouded in darkness cast by his hat. From his lips down, a bright smile flashed teeth inked by the twinkling lights of the church.

He stopped playing and said, “Eveline?”

Eveline froze midway, hand already halfway into her pocket for a dollar to toss into the open guitar case. Though the voice carried a familiar tone, she couldn’t place it with the man’s face half hidden in shadows.

Seeing she didn’t recognize him, the man lifted off his hat. Long hair flopped forward over his forehead, a wide grin on the man’s face.

It took her a second longer for recognition to dawn on her.

“Martin!”

Eveline grinned in surprise, cutting the distance to embrace him, wary of the guitar strapped across his shoulder.

“What are you doing here?” Eveline asked as she stepped back and examined him.

He hadn’t changed at all. That same tall frame kept lean and muscular, those brown eyes she recalled twinkled with the same impulse for mischief and play she remembered from their high school days. The only difference between that Martin and this one was his hair. Rich brown still, it now hung loosely over his forehead, thicker on the sides and back. Martin from high school usually kept it close shaved.

“Dude, you haven’t changed at all! Except the hair. You have it longer now.” Eveline asked.

Martin chuckled, brushing back the hair. “Yeah. I got tired of keeping it short. How are you? What are you doing here?”

“I work here.” Eveline said, pointing at the restaurant across the street. “I’m the pastry chef.”

Sure enough, Martin’s eyes fell on the jacket folded over her arm, the insignia of her position stark black against the bright streetlights.

Martin let out of a low whistle. “Pastry Chef? That’s unexpected.”

“Yeah, it happened out of the blue.”

“Not bad, Eve.”

Oh. Eve. She’d not heard the nickname for years now. With so many Yes, Chef; Heard, Chef; and Chef in general, she was beginning to think her name was Chef.

“What about you?” Eveline asked. “What are you doing here?”

“I ended up in pharmaceutical like my parents wanted, and five days ago I quit because it was sucking my soul away.” Martin said. “Now I’m here.”

Martin glanced down at the guitar on his lap and plucked a string.

Her smile widened. During high school, they shared all except one class together, and their joined love for music kept them glued for four years. When high school finished, different college plans drifted them apart. She hadn’t heard from him since. All their memories together were fond ones.

“You’re playing guitar again?” Eveline asked, taking a seat next to him.

She couldn’t stop the flood of jealousy. It nipped her in the chest like newly burnt skin.

“I’m trying.” Martin said. He met her eyes. “You still play and sing?”

Eveline looked away this time, plucking off a nonexistent piece of lint on her chef coat. “No. I haven’t played in a long time.”

Martin extended the guitar toward her. Eveline eyed the massive instrument with some trepidation. He’d always preferred larger instruments due to his tall frame. She, being smaller in stature, favored mini guitars. Nevertheless, her fingers itched to grab it, but she hesitated. It’d been almost four years since she last touched a guitar. She wasn’t sure she knew how anymore.

“Go on. Take it.” Martin said.

“I haven’t played in years. I don’t know if I remember.”

“Bullshit.” Martin said, echoing the certainty in her bones she could still play. She could play guitar in her sleep.

He extended the guitar out to her again. With fingers itching to touch, she gently grabbed the guitar from him and adjusted it on her body. Her heart swelled. Something in her chest cracked open.

It smelled of fine wood. The smooth curve of the instrument ran through her fingers like fine silk. The strings smelled of metal and though callouses covered her fingertips from years of playing, she loved the light bite of the strings as she formed a chord.

She nearly broke down in tears. When she strummed the first chord, a joyfulness screamed: This. This is it!

Eveline quickly handed the instrument back to its owner.

Martin adjusted the guitar on his lap, strumming a chord progression. “How’s the voice doing?”

“Rusty. Very rusty.” Eveline said, recognizing the song Martin played.

Those bright brown eyes met hers, glittering with a light that had nothing to do with the lights around them.

“Remember when we did this for choir class?”

Eveline smiled in spite of herself. “I remember.”

“Still remember the words?” he asked.

She shrugged, but of course she remembered. Martin knew it too. How many hours they spent practicing. At the end of it, she hated the song so much she never listened to it again. But it’d engraved itself so deeply in her mind, she often found herself humming the melody, singing phrases of it.

“For old times’ sake?” Martin asked.

Eveline recognized her entrance. The words tumbled out of her mouth.

The more she sang, the more she opened those channels back into her spirit. Truths Eveline kept hidden out of fear stepped out.

She worked hard those two years in culinary school, thinking she wanted it. She thrived at work, pushing herself to perform with excellence and to shine, and she did. She excelled in every area she touched until she landed in pastries. There, she thought she’d stay, and she did stay because here she was making desserts still. But it no longer fit her.

It wasn’t that cooking was such a disaster, it just didn’t fulfill her. She worked, made desserts, and did the everyday tasks she needed to, but she was simply going through the motions. She could do it, she realized. She could continue on this path and work, work, work until her days were gone. But she would never be fulfilled.

She wasn’t happy.

She was surviving.

Un-warmed up and unused as her singing voice was, it moved through her registers with ease, rising and falling, placing itself in the correct spot for the sound she wanted to come out. It was like she never stopped.

She might have abandoned her love for music, but the music never left her.

The more she let go and gave herself to the music, the less tired her body felt. An energy she couldn’t place invigorated her.

This. She needed this. She craved this. She hungered for this every second of her life.

People stopped by and dropped dollar bills on the open guitar case.

She didn’t stop. Martin didn’t stop. And somehow, she transported back to high school. Two teenagers dreaming of making it in music before life pulled them apart. Before they considered it a moot point and a pipe dream.

She sang, he played, and when they sang together, their voices melded so effortlessly and easily no one would believe they’d been separate from each other for years.

Five songs later found them with a nice stack of bills, and a crowd of admirers who applauded them.

“Thank you.” Martin and Eveline said.

As the crowd dispersed, Martin tried splitting the wins evenly. Eveline downright refused.

“Why not?” Martin asked.

“Because this is your livelihood, Marty. I’m not taking that away from you. I just clocked out of a long shift and you’re at the start of unemployment.”

Martin smiled. “I thought you forgot about ‘Marty’.”

She had forgotten the nickname. Then the name tumbled out of her mouth like she was 18 again and not her late twenties.

She shrugged. “I did forget.”

“You sure?” he asked, waving the cash temptingly.

“I’m sure.” Glancing down at her watch she gasped. It was nearly two in the morning. She needed to get home.

“You’re here every night?” Eveline asked.

“Some nights. I’m looking for gigs in nearby coffee shops and bars.” Marty said. “You work tomorrow?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Same time?”

“Same time.” Eveline said.

Martin brought out a pad of paper from his back pocket and plucked a pen from her chef jacket. He scribbled down something and handed back the pen and paper with his number.

Producing the notepad she kept on her at all times, she wrote down her number and handed it to him.

She pulled him into a hug again.

“I’m glad I saw you again today.” Eveline said.

He hugged back just as warmly. “Me too, Eve. Me too.”

“If I get any gigs, you down to play them with me?” Marty asked.

She agreed without hesitation. “Yes.”

They parted ways, her chest aglow with the events of the night. Reaching her home, she set her jacket on the couch and walked without hesitation toward the room in her house where she kept the guitar she’d not played in several years.

Eveline entered the room, carefully lifted the guitar in its case and set it on the bed. She unzipped the case and brought out the guitar.

Eveline sat down on the bed, placed the guitar on her lap, and for the first time in four years, she began to play.