The day after, it was Tomato Soup. Tomato Soup and a Large Roll that should have been warm, but wasn’t. I wedged the Roll into a makeshift fist when I was using the spoon. It was hard to hold on to. Occasionally I’d dip the Bread in the Soup. The claret-colored Tomato Cream would hang onto the Roll as I removed it, then trickle back into the Soup container; rushed at first, then just a few drops. Then it would stop.  I wasn’t hungry anymore.

    Usually it was Sandwiches. They were easy enough to hold, especially if I bandaged the bottom with the cheap waxy paper they came bedded in. It was inevitable that I would lose something, though. Some Lettuce, or maybe a Pickle. It was impossible to save it all. The Ketchup would dribble all over my fingers and coagulate as I ate. Even if I washed my hands after, they never felt clean.

    A couple of weeks in I tried a Salad. I choked on an Artichoke Heart. I hadn’t asked for the Heart. It was there anyway.

    “Alex,” They would ask me sometimes, “Would you like to come out to lunch with us? I found a great Family-Style Restaurant downtown. We could all sit around and share a Meal, Sweetie.” They called me ‘Sweetie’ because I was the youngest one who worked there.
    “No, Thank You.” She had taught me to always say ‘Thank You’. She told me that if anything was important, it was important to be polite.
    “I hear some people just like to be alone… after…” I would hear them whisper as I was leaving.

     I had brought her lunch every day for the past year, ever since she was admitted. I had sat down in the same spot, by the window and beside the bed, for every day that year. She would fuss over little things. Like how my friends would call me Alex. She said she named me Alexander for a reason, and if she had wanted people to call me Alex, then she would have named me Alex. The door was shut on the last day. The doctors told me they did everything they could.

    Today, it was a Smoothie. I never got drinks and Meals because they were impossible to balance. I never knew where to put the drinks. I drank the Smoothie by suctioning off a straw-ful with one finger. Then I’d drip the Blood Orange liquid down my throat. I pretended I was on IV. People looked at me strange.

    I never knew where I was going while I walked and ate my meals. But I always pretended I had somewhere to go, or I didn’t have the time to sit down and enjoy them. It wasn’t either of those, really. If I kept walking, I didn’t think of it as eating a Meal. If I kept walking, I didn’t have to sit down.

     “Alexander,” She would say warmly, every time I used to walk in. Then, a proud smile. “My Alexander the Great.” She thought the nickname was cute.

    There was nothing Great about me.

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