The Orange Prison

I took myself out today, went to the mall alone, bought a tall chocolate frappe from Starbucks, ordered spaghetti with meatballs, a side of garlic bread and double cheese fries. I do this once every two months, splurge on food and eat a lot.

Then I saw her, a middle aged Filipina sitting across the table, she was wearing a standard house worker uniform, the colour was dull, just like her aura. Her dead eyes stared blankly at me, as if the world took the life out of her leaving her void of any emotion. She casually took a bite out of the chicken shawarma she was holding, like a routine, like a never-ending cycle of physical despondency, the cheap shawarma being glorified in a hero’s mouth didn’t even cost as much as the Pepsi cola I had ordered earlier.

I couldn’t move, I couldn’t even swallow, a big lump of guilt suddenly lodged its way through my throat, like a painful reminder of how lucky I am to be sitting on this side of the table with an overpriced-tasteless Starbucks coffee, a pasta I could’ve cooked at home and a stale bread I could’ve picked up from the supermarket.

I decided to change seats, I couldn’t stand the look on her face, her sad eyes told me stories of heartbreaks, mops and solitude. I looked at her one last time and left.