Taste Me

2.

"Shit!"

I yelp and hold my aching shin as I flip the light switch on in my apartment kitchen, right off the front door.

I guess I forgot to move the huge box of clothes that don't fit me anymore. I have yet to take them to the Goodwill.

My leg is the victim of the box's dark room attack, and it's just the icing on the fucking cake for the shit night I had at work tonight.

I stumble over to the counter and toss my keys and purse on top of it before I hop my way to the tiny bistro two-seater table, the only kind that will fit in this tiny galley kitchen of mine.

I instinctively rub my leg and grimace, hoping that tomorrow will be better than today, but I know it won't be any fucking different.

I'm exhausted as I unlock my phone, looking through my messages. As I scroll around on my social media sites, I get a notification that my mom is calling me.

This is odd because it's kind of late at night, after midnight.

"Hello?" I whisper apprehensively.

"Hi, sweetie," my mom says on the other end.

"Mom? Why are you calling me so late? Is everything alright?" Nervous energy bubbles in my stomach.

My mom sighs. "Yes, everything is fine. I just can't sleep."

"Oh," I say, feeling the rush of relief. "That's cool. I just got off work. Another shitty night," I mention and brace myself for a lecture on the use of swearing.

"At least you have a job," my mom whimpers on the other end, I'm home free for the reprimand this time.

My parents still live out in California, near San Diego. If you think that living in New York City is expensive, well magnify that by like...a million and that's how much it costs to live out in California.

Growing up, we didn't have a huge house or anything, but we lived comfortably. My father has a degree in accounting and usually jumps around from job to job, helping companies get their finances in order.

Only now with the economy the way it is, the irony of the situation is that he just got laid off by a major corporation and now he's in a spotty financial state. The company wanted to cut costs, is the way my mom explained it at the time.

"Dad still can't find a business to hire him?" My voice is high and squeaky with surprise.

"No," my mom says despondently into the phone.

I imagine her sitting in the kitchen or something with all the lights off, her face glowing a soft blue color from the phone screen. She's probably wearing a pink silk nightgown with a cup of tea steaming beside her on the table.

"I'm so sorry, Mom," I whisper softly, and with grief. "I feel like this is all my fault." I shake my head and rub my temples. I know my dad has been looking for a job for several months now.

"No, sweetie," my mom tries to be convincing. "It's not your fault at all, it's the economy."

I scoff. "That's everyone's excuse for everything."

"Well, it's true. I don't want you to feel guilty," my mom says.

I do feel culpable though.

You see, my loving, nurturing, wonderful parents bear the brunt of my school payments because, well...they paid for it.

Yes, they paid for the entire thing, each semester, everything I needed; they bought it with no questions asked.

I'm talking books, supplies, the works. What do I have to show for it? A few lousy tips and a nearly negative bank account of my own.