Low Sodium

It was dark, blustery. Like the opening moments of a pilot episode where you’re about to see something you can’t unsee, something violent or frightening or incongruently funny and you’ll be trapped, hooked. The scene was complete with a drab looking many-cornered building with plenty of places for shadows to linger. There was even a sign, wooden with some kind of embossment that would have been visible 50 years ago but now was reduced to a faint flash of bronze and a smudge that might have been writing. It creaked of course, eerily. And it was raining, the wind whipped through the street with all the force of January and just a hint of spring that was a mockery in the cold. Their hoods couldn’t protect them much, and an umbrella would certainly have been doomed in this weather. So, damp and chilled, blinking against raindrops, they made their way under the creaking sign to the door of the many-cornered building and opened it. The door creaked too of course.

The building stood in a small town that could have had a name, but it wouldn’t have made much of a difference if you knew it or not. I am confident in saying that you will never go there. It’s possible that this town doesn’t even exist. Maybe it is a film set. That would explain the low and haunting music that seemed to follow them in the dark.

So, the door creaked open and they felt the sudden flush of warm air on their faces. It was luxurious, but the best change by far was the respite from the damp. Apart from the leak in the roof that dripped steadily in the far corner, the room was dry and as far removed from outside as one could hope for. I could have told you that the light was golden and that the oaken floors themselves seemed to radiate warmth and contentment. There might have been a large hearth at one side of the room like an old way-house and the bar might have been worn but welcoming, the kind of place where you order a beer and not a brand name.

That’s not what it was like at all, but that’s certainly how it felt in those first wonderful moments out of the elements. They stood and dripped and their hands slowly turned from icy claws back into human fists and out of habit more than utility they rubbed numbed fingers together, smearing the rainwater across their skin. Gradually the warmth receded to a mere block against the wind and they paused in the act of shrugging out of their damp coats.

With a groan the tall one sank down in a wooden chair that groaned in harmony. The shorter one, also tall but not so tall when stood next to the tall one, looked around the room and smiled hesitantly at the elderly server who approached them with two water glasses half full. It was a good thing they weren’t entirely full because the blue-veined, gnarled hands were trembling.

I could have told you that when they entered the room everything fell silent at once, dramatically signalling that these two were strangers to the area. That’s not how it was though, there was no din of flatware against plates to interrupt, there was no hum of conversation, there could have sparks snapping and logs shifting in the hearth but of course there wasn’t a hearth. They weren’t strangers either, to the area I mean. They certainly were strangers to each other. They lived as far away as possible from each other while still being in the same town. It was at least 40 paces between the tall one’s front door and the centre of town, and the shorter one lived right on the outskirts of town on the either side of the centre. It wasn’t really a centre so much as the idea of a centre and the idea sat there because there wasn’t a building in the way, but in reality the centre was off to the right. The many-cornered building was not in the centre of town, but fortunately it was off to the left, equally far away from each of their houses so no one felt unduly inconvenienced. They couldn’t have found a more convenient place if they tried, because there was no other such place in town.

So, there was no din to cease and the quiet continued after their arrival, broken slightly by the clink of glasses descending onto the table. It was less a clink and more of a crash because the old hands released their burden slightly too soon and gravity assisted their arrival with vigour. The tall one flinched at the noise and then smiled apologetically at the old man.

“Something to drink, sirs?”

The shorter one huffed, rankled, but the old man didn’t notice.

The tall one cleared his throat awkwardly, “Just a beer for me please.”

The old eyes blinked over to the shorter one who still stood, defiant against something although she probably couldn’t have said against what, exactly.

“Beer is good.”

The server turned to shuffle away and the shorter one finally settled down into a chair. And by settled I mean she perched awkwardly on the edge of her seat and stared at her companion while he sipped his water. It was gone in a blink, a small glass in a large hand and he sighed mournfully with the resignation of a person who has grown to expect a world that is made slightly too small for him.

He looked up and met her eyes, smiling disarmingly. “Well? How are you feeling? Nachos?”

She dragged a menu towards her, shaking her head. “I need something hot, this rain is killing me.”

She did look a little wan, like a statue that’s stood in a garden for so long that features have worn away smooth.

She started to relax in increments, despite the chill down the back of her neck.

“Shepherds pie looks good. So did you-?” She blushed awkwardly and sat back as the server returned with their glasses. The beer was glowing amber with at least three inches of head. Once again the glasses settled aggressively onto the wood of the table but the foam was all that spilled over the rim.

“Something to eat, sirs?”

She glared at him. “Shepherds pie.”

The tall one looked down at the menu. “A pizza, the Meat-Lover’s. And a Caesar salad please.” 

The server extended a hand for the menu, “A starter size salad?”

The tall one looked away awkwardly, “A full one, I think.”

They both watched the old man recede back to the kitchen. He seemed to grow hazy around the edges the farther away he went.

They sat in silence, sipping their beers and watching the empty dining room grow dimmer and more still all around them. There were other patrons of course, and other servers, but they were enveloped in their own dinners and their own lives (perhaps a poor choice of words) to the point where they might have been on a tv screen with the volume way down. They even seemed to glow faintly.

Finally, the tall one cleared his throat. “So, we should probably talk.” He tried to say it kindly, but those words are always either awkward or ominous.

She nodded unhappily. “Yes, it’s not really that I think there’s a problem, it’s just that if there was a problem and we’ll have to deal with it one day we might as well deal with it now.”

He sipped, ponderously, which takes some doing. “I agree, and not saying that I think it will necessarily become a problem but if it did at least we’ll be prepared.”

They both nodded and watched the condensation gather on their glasses. Hers was ringed with fingerprints, not just the fingerprint but the print of her fingers in a chokehold where the pint glass narrowed at the base.

“Perhaps,” she swallowed her too-small voice and started again, “Perhaps you could lay out what you think might be something to address and we can go from there.”

He nodded sagely. “Of course, of course. Well, I think as long as we keep the lines of communication open we can respond to anything that might come up.”

She pulled the cuffs of her jacket over her hands and huddled deeper into her chair. The chill which at first had just hovered around the nape of her neck was burrowing deeper now into the space between her shoulder blades. She was beginning to regret the beer and thought about ordering a hot water with lemon.

“That’s good, as long as we both know that we can bring things up if there is something… something that should be brought up. Good.”

He smiled, beamed really, and his teeth looked slightly too small for his face. He was probably resigned to that. “I’m so glad we got a chance to talk. Excellent.”

She tried to return his smile but she had a sinking feeling that there had been something she was supposed to say and she hadn’t said it.

“Oh good!” The server tottered up to their table with three large plates balanced precariously in his arms. They both reached out unconsciously to catch the inevitable avalanche of dishware as it made its way to the now thrice abused tabletop.

“The plates are hot.” The server intoned sonorously, quite a feat when one’s vocal cords have aged and withered and ones voice sounds a bit like wind through the grass in a cemetery.

“Thank you.” They chorused.

The plates were hot, brutally so, and for the first several bites she found herself in the intensely uncomfortable position of swallowing gulps of mashed potatoes far too quickly and feeling them lodged somewhere in her chest, steaming and burning and merely increasing her outward chill by virtue of contrast. Her companion tucked into his salad, the plate upon which it rested was not, in fact, hot, and neither were the contents and so he remained oblivious to the discomfort of his dinner mate.

Gradually, the potatoes eased the edge off both her hunger and her chill and she realized that they were missing something. Another bite. What was it? They were good, but sort of flat like lukewarm water.

The tall one dug into his pizza and after a few bites he paused and frowned. “It’s missing something.” He took another bite. “It’s good, but sort of flat, like…”

“Lukewarm water?” She offered.

He perked up, “Yes, exactly.”

She reached for the pepper shaker and looked around for the salt. “Seasoning I think.” There was no salt, but she continued to look over the expanse of the table in the hopes that it might appear. None of the tables around them seemed to have salt either.

“Everything all right here, sirs?”

She huffed, annoyedly, but he didn’t notice. “Could we get some salt please?” She tried to state it as little like a question as possible. Let it be a command that he would hop too and she would be gratified to the point where she could stop imagining what it would be like to spill her beer all over the floor and watch him wipe it up.

“I’m sorry, we don’t have any salt.”

She deflated. “You, you don’t?”

He smiled gently, “We’re a low sodium establishment.” He drifted away from their table and for one instant she thought she could see the far wall through his white shirt but of course that would be impossible.

She dug around in her pie for a forkful that might be more satisfying. She came up at last with some beef, a bean, and a flourish of potato.

It tasted like dishwater now. Not quite so flat, but sort of warm and dank.

The tall one had taken this setback in stride and was putting away his bland meal with the resignation of someone who is used to being disappointed just slightly by the fare on his plate. The salad had vanished, and the pizza too was disappearing far more quickly than it had any right to. He looked surprised when it had gone and sighed gently, overlarge and forlorn.

She guiltily spooned up the last of her dinner and avoided looking at him. It was a bit like eating on the beach under the bright eyes of the gulls.

At last when she was done, he sat back and smiled with his too-small teeth in that too-quiet, many-cornered building with the ceiling dripping, the lights flickering dimly, and the servers hovering in the background. “Well,” he said. “Well that was wonderful, I feel that we really got somewhere tonight.”

But, of course, it wasn’t, and they hadn’t.