Second Chances || Thomas McGregor

E L E V E N

We continued to eat in silence. It reminded me of how my parents used to have a picnic at Central Park when I was younger, and when they were still alive. My eyes glossed over as I remembered receiving the notice of my parent's death.

I was sitting at the front desk of Chalabange over viewing the finishing construction and preparing everything for the night's grand opening. My partner who helped me start the restaurant walked in from the crisp morning air sending chills up my spine. I remember him solemnly handing me a white piece of paper from one of the hospitals in England; weird since my parents were both healthy and I had never gotten a letter about their health. Grasping it tightly I opened it and burst into tears. My body had shuddered with tears and I could not do anything except stare into the oblivion that had consumed me.

But that was in the past, they were in a place much better than here.

Tearing myself from my thoughts, I reached into the woven basket, blinking away any tears that dared to fall. But when I dived my hand into the blankets McGregor used to cover the bread, I still came back without the bag of salty delights. To me, chips were a necessary when eating a sandwich.

But I remembered when I had looked in his cabinets that he lacked the beautifully salty snacks. "Where are the chips?" He turned his head to the right to look at me, swallowing the piece of sandwich he had in his mouth.

"Chips?" He replied with raised eyebrows.

"You know. Chips. They are deep fried potato pieces." He continued to give me a questioning look, "They are thin and they come in bags. They have different flavors like barbecue, sour cream and onion, and vinegar. I prefer original but I can do with whatever." He continued to stare at me and then his face relaxed.

"You mean crisps don't you?"

"What's a crisp?" I tilted my head to the side. This was getting extremely confusing.

"Crisps here in England are what you Americans call chips. Chips to us are your french fries." He smirked slightly, "It's you Americans that have to make everything so difficult."

"No it ain't," I recoiled, "You Englanders are the weird ones with all the different sayings n'stuff," I grumbled the last part. I do not like being corrected. We looked over the meadows as the weeds swayed in the noon sunlight. It would be relaxing to live here, no cars to disrupt sleep, no lights to distort the stars.

I was half way through my sandwich when the man next to me stood with so much vigor I almost choked. "What the hell McGregor?" He continued to look over at the horizon, but I didn't see anybody. He was looking back at where we traveled to get to the wonderful tree, perhaps he was looking at the rabbit, or gopher holes? "Are you going bonkers?" His face turned from relaxed to furious in a split second.

"Give me your sandwich." He barked holding out his left hand.

"No, I'm still eating it." I snapped, he was sure a strange man. I was about to take a bite when McGregor ripped the sandwich out of my hands. "I know you are paranoid and stuff but why-"

"Rabbits." And with that he started sprinting off, leaving me under the tree. He of course had finished his meal before me so I couldn't get revenge, so I sat there peacefully. Staring forward and not bothering to look at the deranged man that I dare called my neighbor. Yawning, I stretched out my legs. My left leg had become bright red again but did not look infected. My right was bruised from the accident and some bruises turned a sickly green which meant they were in their way to healing.

The tree swayed, forcing the shadows to move. It was a wonderful feeling. It would be better if I had food though. I took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. Looking at the horizon, opposite of where the man went, I noticed dark clouds approaching our location. I stretch both my feet in front of me and propped my upper body on my elbows, dismissing the clouds.