Pancakes

Pancakes. Spongy, moist dough crowned with an island of half melted butter in a sea of sticking, dripping syrup. It is so sticky that it clings from the outer edge of his palm and onto the plastic table, his napkin, his lime green hibiscus shirt.

Strings of sugar tangle together, webbing through the wiry, barbed hair of his chin. His goatee. The sticky forest moves up and down and I can hear him chew, see his unbrushed teeth peek through unclosed lips; the bubbles of the spongy dough bursting between his molars, the least pleasurable popping of bubble wrap imaginable. I can hear his spit, feel the bubbles burst.

I hate looking at him.

I don’t know what it is about pancakes. I don’t know what it is about their flattened, pressed ovals, their tiny, claustrophobic holes that makes me want to scream in the middle of this diner, ruining all chances of seeing sunlight again. I sit still, trying to prevent the shrill red pleather from shrieking beneath me. If he hears it, he will think I am running.

Running is suicide.

I don't move but I all I want to do is lean over. I want to pick up the hard plastic plate from under his sticky knuckles and throw it at the floor, the wall, the door, at him. I want the platter to shatter from under the pile of sweet dough and melted sugar and I want to wail. I want to cry out so violently that the scream itself will bite into his skin when he covers my mouth. I want someone to help. I want someone to see. I want to… I should want to run.

But I can’t, so I don’t. I won’t. Not again. Not yet.

Instead, I focus on your voice. That soothing, sweet sound that has lulled me to sleep so many times. Constant vigilance, eternal suspicion; a slogan for the ultimate Italian grandmother. I don’t know why it is your voice I hear right now. I don’t know why it is your crêped hand I imagine cupping mine. The hand that led me across wobbly sidewalks and into new schools. The hand that ran along hair, my fevered forehead, my tear soaked cheeks. Am I imagining all of that? Am I imagining you?

Maybe it’s the smell of sticky, sweet, rich food. Maybe it’s because I’m failing you.

If you were here, you would tell me to run. Break the lock. Open the door. Hurtle your body forward into the dark empty street as you scream for someone, anyone but him, to find you, to help you. Go to the bathroom. Wait for a stranger. Wait for a phone. Blink twice at the waitress. Poison his water, his beer, his plate. Steal something, anything. His phone. His keys. Take the knife. Squeeze his throat. Burn it all. Slip away. Hide in the car. The garbage bins. The alley. Scream for help. Whisper. Use your teeth. Bite hard. Write a message. Speak up. With what pen? With what voice?

Escape is only worth it if you make it to the end.

That goatee, those sticky lips, sugar coated teeth… Why me? What did I do wrong? Was it because I young and nostalgic and innocent and sweet? Did I remind him of his mother, his sister, his brother? The girl who refused him when he was sixteen? Was I in the wrong place at the wrong time? On a bike, in the park, as the clock hit three? Did I look at him? Avoid him? Speak to him, wink at him? What did I do to make him choose me?

It has been sixty days and twelve hours since he took me. I don’t have a clock to keep track of the minutes, but it wouldn’t matter if I did. I’m not going to escape today. I’m not going to run away. Not on this hot, sticky day; a day like a platter of pancakes.

Constant vigilance, eternal suspicion. I wish you were there to protect me, grandma. I wish you were here right now. I wish your ghost would charge into this diner and slaughter him. Take his soul. Watch his body fall onto his pancakes, limp and sticky and bland. I want to see him broken. I want to see him gone. Then, I wouldn’t have to run. I wouldn’t be afraid of being chased, or caught, or hunted down. I wouldn’t be afraid for other girls, the ones he will take when I lose my pancake innocence.

I want to save them. I want to escape. I want to run.

But not today. I won’t run today. I will wait for your ghost and I will say nothing, do nothing but sit still in this leather booth. I won’t speak, won’t think; I will nod and smile. I will wait and wait for a moment when-

A police car parks outside. Metal doors slam shut. The goatee chews, smacks, drips. Door bells chime, clinking together. Two uniforms walk in. His jaw stills. I make no expression. I take no breath. I feel your hand. Are you here? The men sit down across from us, across from me.

Maybe, today I will not wait.

Maybe, today I will run.

Beneath me, the red booth squeaks.