Springs breaks free

For a week Sally Springs decided to eat nothing more than oatmeal porridges. At home, she had a bag of oatmeal, dried cranberries, and a half-empty jar of peanut butter to provide one nutritious meal a day for the rest of the next seven days. Other than that, she cried into her pillow every afternoon from 6 to 8 p.m.
Sally’s job ended at 6 p.m. She was used to going to bed before 9 p.m., so it made sense to spare no more than these two hours for heartfelt sobbing. She didn’t allow herself to cry in the mornings because of the daily Zoom meetings her job organized at random times throughout the day without secular warnings.

At 12.00 p.m. she would log off and close the work computer for her one hour-long lunch break. Then she would place the pot on an old gas stove to boil the water. Sally used one specific black pot that was a couple of millimeters too narrow for the size of the smallest burner, so it always tended to slide off and required constant attention. She didn’t mind standing next to the stove and keeping an eye on the pot’s placement. In the meantime, she would stare at the wall in front of her, which was covered with white tiles. After 9 minutes and 23 seconds, Sally had counted all 48 of them and had a small bowl of hot comfort meal ready.

On the first day, the oatmeal porridge was sticking in her throat. She made a mistake by pouring too many flakes, and as a result, the porridge turned out to be way too thick. Sally first fished out all the cranberries from the bowl, then ate a couple spoonfuls of actual porridge, then almost started to cry about the fact that porridge wasn’t good which meant she wasn’t a good cook, and wasn’t good at anything else either. It was not 6 to 8 p.m. yet so she just sniffled a little, and went on with washing the dishes. By the third day, she figured out the right ratios for not too thick nor too runny porridge. On the fifth day, she treated herself by adding some cinnamon powder and agave syrup to the mix as a substitute for the cranberries she had run out of. She simply liked cranberries most.

Sally was holding on just alright for that week, her porridges turned out better and better, and her tear-shedding sessions shrunk shorter and shorter, as if the porridge became the glue that held all of her broken pieces together allowing her to function more or less properly.

On the 8th day, the oatmeal bag was almost empty and Sally was going out to get a new one when she ran into her friend Paisley on the stairway. Maybe just by coincidence, it was also a Sunday. Sally grew up raised as a catholic, therefore Sundays always felt a little more important than the other days of the week. She hadn’t attended the Sunday mass in church for years nor made the confessions of her numerous sins, for example, getting angry with her colleagues and typing rude messages she never sent, or not having enough empathy to feed the cat that she occasionally passed by on her way to the supermarket.

Despite that, she found a beam of joy in the thought that, first of all, she was not a child anymore and could decide for herself to go or not, and second of all, even when little, she always secretly thought that God loves sinners the most simply because they were more entertaining to watch from the pastel pink Heavens clouds.

-Oh, poor thing, how are you holding on? – Sally’s friend Paisley burst through the door, accompanied by a fog of sympathy and a sickly sweet floral perfume mix.
-I’m alright, feeling better. – Sally let herself be locked in a tight hug.

Hugging actually felt nice. It was her first real-life human contact in a week. Sally enjoyed the warmth of someone else’s body aligning with her own. She felt less lonely. Paisley wrapped up the hug with an uplifting, nonchalant pat on Sally’s back and with that ended the touching moment between the two friends rapidly. Anxiety entered Sally’s body again and she couldn’t help but look concerned.
-Don’t lie to me, I see you look miserable. Are you eating well? Your cheeks are sunken in…-
-Yes, I have. But I have been on a sort of diet for a week. It helps with my mood.
-Oh really? Where did you find that diet? I can tell you have lost some weight and your skin looks clearer. I saw this video today about dopamine. – Paisley unhooked a large shopping bag off her shoulder and smiled. -Turns out that tasty food is a great mood lifter.

Hours later the miniature kitchen table at Sally’s apartment was at maximum capacity with 2 empty dinner plates, 2 small soup bowls, a salad bowl, a big wooden spoon, two clean, empty glasses, and an unopened bottle of wine. They had relished a hearty meal of creamy broccoli cheddar soup, crunchy fuji apple chicken salad, and light Mediterranean veggie sandwiches that Paisley had picked up from their favorite diner on her way to Sally’s place. Both friends exchanged pleased looks and laid back in their seats. Their bellies were comfortably full and moods settled. The room was filled with warm light from evening sun rays coming through the window but the corners of the kitchen already started to disappear in the dusk. Sally was contemplating that probably after 20 minutes she will have to turn the lights on or else they would be sitting in the dark. But there was still time before that moment came.

Paisley pointed to the unopened bottle of red wine:
-Do you want a glass of wine? – she asked.
-No, no thank you. I read somewhere that it takes three weeks for alcohol to fully leave your body. And only one has passed since you know what. – Sally shook her head.
-Oh, Sal’ what have he done to you…- Paisley pursed her lips tightly together with the same sentiment, an older lady would clutch her pearls as a sign of disapproval.
-All men are alike, they are all the same. I’m sure you will be back to normal soon, now that he’s out of your life.

Sally felt sadness appearing on the horizon like a big dark cloud. She blinked a couple of times to fight back the tears. She didn’t know what to answer Paisley. There was a lump in her throat blocking any sound or syllable, not even talking about words or full sentences. Before this visit, Sally felt like she finally was getting back to normal but the concern in her friend’s tone made her uneasy. There was nothing else she wanted as much as to go back to normal. But did she know what that normal was? Did normal tastes like oatmeal and the metallic flavor of a strict routine or was it the bittersweet sentiment of saying Sunday prayers, drinking fruity, spicy, bold-flavored Christ’s blood, and making new sins after the old ones were forgiven and forgotten?

She gently closed the door after Paisley had left, and decided to go ahead and start washing the dishes and organize the clutter in her tiny kitchen. There was enough oatmeal left for tomorrow’s lunch, and after work, she could go and buy a new bag. She doesn’t need two hours to cry anymore. She could easily use 30 minutes for a quick walk to the grocery store and back. The thought of getting out of the house cheered Sally up. She left the kitchen in a good mood, full of hope, for another great week ahead.

At 3.00 a.m. Sally turned the kitchen’s light switch on. She couldn’t sleep. The wine bottle was still on the table looking at her with a mysterious wisdom. Sally decided to check if it has a cork or a screw cap. In the cork case, she could easily pass because Sally never learned how to pull out the cork of a wine bottle. The cork usually crumbled under her attempts and got stuck.

The bottle had a screw cap.

*
On Monday Sally was late to work, and by Friday she resigned. On Saturday she went out for brunch with her ex-boyfriend. And still she would cry every now and then without secular warnings.