Free Wanted Always (Xander Barns) by Sarah Tork Page B

cutlery table. I pick up a lightly warmed plate,
with a napkin wrapped cutlery medley. I’m jumping with anticipation; I’ve never
been this happy to eat.
    First table is two selections of salads, a
mixed green, and a Caesar. I smile happily, approving both choices. I grab some
Caesar salad and put it on my plate.
    Next table.
    The first tray has steam coming out of it.
I smell something tomato-y and cheesy; I hope it’s lasagna or some sort of
pasta. Workers from the kitchen stand behind each tray, spooning out equal
amounts onto everyone’s plate. I halt in front of the first and peer into it to
see what is smelling so good.
    It smells so good; that is, until I
actually see what it is.
    “What is that?” I ask the food attendant,
horrified at the cheese covered pancake shaped vegetable.
    “Eggplant Parmesan,” the food attendant
quickly answers, and my eyes widen at the same time my mouth drops. I quickly
close it and pull my plate back.
    I hate eggplant! Mom knows this! I inhale
through my nose and quickly shake it off. It could just be a coincidence;
perhaps it’s the facility’s specialty, and knowing Mom, she always wants the
best.
    Even if it’s fucking Eggplant Parmesan!
    “No, thank you.” I quickly move to the
next tray. It’s some sort of rice dish, but it looks gooey and sticky. There is
also some sort of white meat sticking out of it.
    “What’s that?” I ask the next attendant,
while trying to mask the look of confused disgust on my face.
    “That is squid risotto, the attendant
answers. My plate jerks back at the word squid.
    Squid! How could she? This time I’m unable
to hide the look of distain from my face; I have stomach issues whenever I eat
anything from the octopus family. Again, Mom knows this.
    Next table. There are three more trays on
this table and I stop in front of the first one, praying that it’s something I
can actually eat. I peer over the tray then look away while desperately trying
to hold back the frustrated groan that’s been stewing since I passed the salad
bowls.
    Onions. Lots and lots of onions cover some
kind of meat, I think chicken. I let out a small breath before asking the
million dollar question again.
    “What’s that?” I ask the third food
attendant, an older woman who looks like she’s on the cusp of retirement.
    “Chicken and onions,” she answers tiredly,
which is also code for ‘Bitch, if you don’t want it, move on’. Fuck!
    All I hear is ‘onions’, and I cry silently
as I cling my plate to my body.
    I hate onions. Yet again, Mom knows this.
So why would she have a tray with chicken and onions? And who makes a dish with
just chicken and onions, anyway? I don’t care if it turns out to be a specialty
of this place; it’s fucking gross.
    But I’m hungry.
    “Can you give me the chicken with
absolutely no onions on it?” I ask the woman. She peers into the tray and moves
things around with her tongs.
    “I’ll do my best,” she says, then grabs a
piece of chicken with the least amount of onions on it and places it onto my
plate. I look back and forth between the chicken that still had onions on it,
and the woman, horrified and confused that maybe she didn’t understand what I
asked her.
    There are onions everywhere, on the
chicken and on my plate! I look at her and she lightly shrugs her shoulders as
if to say ‘What can you do? This is life!’ and looks past me to the person
behind me.
    Fuck! I’d have to do some careful
maneuvering when I went back to the table. All I know is if one piece of that
disgusting vegetable gets into my mouth, there will be hell to pay.
    Don’t mess with me when it comes to
onions. It’s bad enough that she had eggplant, then squid, which I couldn’t
eat. But to pick a dish with onions as a main star, knowing full well how much
I hated them? That is mean and it is deliberate. I quickly twist my neck and
search the room for her, finding her seated at her special table, laughing it
up with her people, eating