“No Fork” Written by Christopher J. Greggs

After rushing through the double doors, I stopped at one of the circular tables across from the Starbucks coffee cart, and proceeded to remove my obsidian black Hp laptop and evironote 5-subject notebook from my messenger bag. In their place, I hid a late night student’s contraband: grilled chicken Cesar salad, 12 oz. Pepsi-Cola, and a Hershey’s Cookie and Cream candy bar. After securing my bag around my shoulders and my laptop and notebook under my arm, I hastily flashed my student ID to the security guard at the entrance of the Library. Briskly, I made my way passed the “No Food or Drink” sign, a bold type reminder of my trip to Wally’s Deli, and guiltlessly graced my way to the third floor study hall.

I found her in a hot-door-less-room that smelled like the by-product of shower-less overnighters and meatball foot-long sandwiches from Subway. She spoke first.

“Hey honey. Got the goods?”

“Yes I do. I am assuming this is not of you doing?” I said with a cringing face that referred to the smell.

“No you jerk. This was the only room left.”

“I’m sure,” I said with a tinge of sarcasm. “How’s the studying going?”

She grabbed the black plastic deli bag out of my hand and commenced her scavenger hunt.

“It’s going,” she said speaking directly into the bag. “No fork?”

Normally the Middle Eastern guy across the counter took care of the fork situation. I began rummaging through the bag and to no surprise she was right—there was no fork. Staying resourceful, I gave her an option.

“I think they have some near the coffee cart downstairs. I can go and get—“

“No they don’t,” she interjected, “and the cafeteria is closed.” She proceeded to roll her eyes, grab the grilled Caesar salad out of the deli bag, all the while avoiding eye contact.

What was sad was that I clearly remember looking at the fork dispenser when I stopped by the Starbucks coffee cart before entering the library. However, like so many things since our breakup even my vision had come into question. I opened up my laptop, unlocked my computer, and stared at the paneled image of the desert raven that covered my desktop. I watched her, as I always did, and saw the frustration on her face as her ability to eat became limited by three-finger-pinches of croutons and green peppers.

“You know what?” she said acknowledging my presence.

“What?”

“This is exactly why I keep a fork in my bag.”

“Well, where is it?”

“I threw it out this morning.” I stayed silent and stared at her.

Irritated, she dug further into the bag and pulled out the Pepsi-Cola and Hershey’s cookie and cream candy bar.

“Uh, Pepsi. You should have gotten me water”

“Well, what about the cookies and cream,” I added attempt to redeem myself. “You did say you wanted something sweet. I remember in the summertime when we used to—“

The solemn look on her face disrupted my romantic anecdote.

I turned back to my laptop and started to act like I was busy. Over the past thirteen months, we were either walking on eggshells or rolling in sheets. Before we got serious we dealt in absolutes. Nothing I said started with “I think” or concluded as if it was posed as a question. She had been more absolute knowing exactly what she wanted. But maybe she was right. It was only a fork.