The wings attached. (Book one)

Et tu, Brute?

     The ride home was calm. I entered my apartment and immediately changed into my home attire. The last I pulled the socks on and jumped under the blanket. Clattering my teeth, I wrapped the blanket tighter. The darkness outside lullabied me. I drifted to sleep in my cold bed thinking of nothing, only from time to time sniffling my nose.

     In an hour I woke up feeling too hot. Stupid Steven with his stupid rain! Shakily I rose and shoved my legs to the bathroom for medicine cabinet.

     I swallowed two cold pills and looked at the clock. Some good news. It was still early, and Mr. Wong’s diner was still open. I put on my jacket and unsteadily carried myself downstairs. Stupid rain. Stupid Steven.

     The freshness of the evening was burning my skin. I shivered from a blow of the wind and yanked myself into the next door.

     Saturday evening was busy. Most of the tables were occupied, and I went straight to the counter calling Mandy. She noticed my pail skin and bright red cheeks right away. I beamed. It was pleasant to see the kindness in her eyes. I said that I wanted some chicken soup, and she promised to make it extra spicy so the next day I would wake up like new.

     “Dad wanted to talk to you about something,” she said.

     “Okay, then I’ll be over there,” I smiled and instead taking my order home found a small table for two and sat down.

     In a little while Mandy brought me a cup of green tea and my noodles. I thanked her, and lazily started sipping the bullion. Motherfucker! The extra hot effect I noticed only on the third spoon, when the tears started coming out from my eyes. Curse you hot souse! I became tomato red all over my face, and began drawing air in and out trying to cool my mouth. I could have a heart attack! Damn it, that’s too hot! I separated the ingredients in the bowl and carefully picked the less dangerous pieces.

      In a little while Mr. Wong approached me, and smiling I pushed my hot dish away. 

     “The mailman left for you a package in the morning. I signed for you,” he said and handed me a huge brown envelope.

     “Thank you, Mr. Wong for your troubles,” I said and was about to open the package, when saw that he wasn’t done. Uncomfortably, he lingered and got straight to the point.

     “Listen, I overheard your conversation with that young man who came the other time. I just want you to know if you need anything, to talk to somebody, we’re here for you. Don’t take me wrong. I won’t treat you differently because you went through a lot. It’s just,” he looked nervous. “I have more experience in life than you, and I know how it is on the other side, to be the one who made a mistake.” I was embarrassed. Half a neighborhood probably heard my encounter with Jason!  To let my neighbors into my personal life wasn’t something thrilling. Horrible.

     Mr. Wong patted my shoulder and hurried back to the kitchen leaving me alone to let my discomfort wear out.

     I fished in my bowl for couple of more slices of carrots, then laid my spoon aside and took the package. So, what the hell is this? The address was in New York, but I had no idea what could be located there. It was somewhere in downtown. Interesting. Patiently, I ripped the side and extracted the papers.

     It was from the social service about the death of Mrs. Swanson. Please, Ms. Bales contact my office blah…blah…blah. There was a telephone number attached, the name of the officer and working hours. I brushed my memory, but couldn’t find anybody I knew by the name Katy Swanson. I know no Swanson. Swan? We studied at college, but her name is Anna.  They must have made a mistake. I put the letter back into the envelope, paid my bill and went outside feeling slightly better. The extra spicy thing was doing its magic.