A Solitary Dinner
by Line Langager
The narrow window in the blank envelope of the letter reflects the afternoon sun’s attempt to cling to the light. Winter weighs down the hours of the day—compresses the day to a useless size, surrounded by oppressive darkness.
My breath turns into a heavy fog with every exhalation. An apparition of my breathing, which is diluted by the frost-bitten air. I let my cooled thumb run lightly over the sender's name. It's my own. I don't remember sending this—and least of all, to myself.
I pry open the letter. It feels like a breach of an unwritten law. An intrusion. The sound of the torn paper seems to resonate among brick buildings. So unforgivably loud.
My eyes fall on the only sentence of the letter. The letters, despite their shaky expression—carry a self-confidence I do not yet possess. The address does not immediately spark recognition.
“You are invited to celebrate our joint birthday on February 11th at 18:00.”
It’s tomorrow, on my twentieth birthday.
A pigeon flies by at high speed. Its characteristic, flickering sound of flapping wings, a reminder that I, too, should be moving on. Not just from this place, but onwards in life.
Inside the apartment, I put the letter down on the worn entrance furniture. The slope of the writing threatens to throw the poor letters over the edge. Is the Earth flat in their world? A single dimension of compressed wood, decorated with ink from a printer. I wouldn't want to test the theory for myself.
My world is just as flat.
Is it because I never seek boundaries? Do you have to design the dimensions of life yourself, or do they arrive by mail?
I look at the letter one last time before I go to bed for the night.
I turn in my sleep. A sleep without dreams. A life without purpose. I’m ashamed in the dark. I am ashamed of how many thoughts I have about how few thoughts I possess.
The morning does not awaken anything within me. There is no difference between day and night. Between days and birthdays. I’m dragging myself around like a slave with a chain around his leg.
The letter captures the light in an other-worldly way like it might contain something more than just words. I bring it with me, devoid of expectations.
The building leans lazily on a construction site. The facade is under reconstruction, just as I should be. I follow the stairs to the top floor.
I knock on the door with discouragement. No one answers.
I hesitate briefly before touching the polished brass handle. The cold of the metal cuts through my bones. Inside, a single candle casts its irregular, orange glow on the dark furniture. The uncanny, oppressive silence sends a shiver down my spine. I’ve stepped into a time warp. A pocket of time.
There’s a birthday card on the dining table. I take a seat and take the card in my trembling hands, preparing myself to receive an omen.
The empty chairs shift in mockery. They stare at me, creaking, blaming me for my lack of substance.
The card is empty, and yet--
My void has never felt so full of dread.
My breath turns into a heavy fog with every exhalation. An apparition of my breathing, which is diluted by the frost-bitten air. I let my cooled thumb run lightly over the sender's name. It's my own. I don't remember sending this—and least of all, to myself.
I pry open the letter. It feels like a breach of an unwritten law. An intrusion. The sound of the torn paper seems to resonate among brick buildings. So unforgivably loud.
My eyes fall on the only sentence of the letter. The letters, despite their shaky expression—carry a self-confidence I do not yet possess. The address does not immediately spark recognition.
“You are invited to celebrate our joint birthday on February 11th at 18:00.”
It’s tomorrow, on my twentieth birthday.
A pigeon flies by at high speed. Its characteristic, flickering sound of flapping wings, a reminder that I, too, should be moving on. Not just from this place, but onwards in life.
Inside the apartment, I put the letter down on the worn entrance furniture. The slope of the writing threatens to throw the poor letters over the edge. Is the Earth flat in their world? A single dimension of compressed wood, decorated with ink from a printer. I wouldn't want to test the theory for myself.
My world is just as flat.
Is it because I never seek boundaries? Do you have to design the dimensions of life yourself, or do they arrive by mail?
I look at the letter one last time before I go to bed for the night.
I turn in my sleep. A sleep without dreams. A life without purpose. I’m ashamed in the dark. I am ashamed of how many thoughts I have about how few thoughts I possess.
The morning does not awaken anything within me. There is no difference between day and night. Between days and birthdays. I’m dragging myself around like a slave with a chain around his leg.
The letter captures the light in an other-worldly way like it might contain something more than just words. I bring it with me, devoid of expectations.
The building leans lazily on a construction site. The facade is under reconstruction, just as I should be. I follow the stairs to the top floor.
I knock on the door with discouragement. No one answers.
I hesitate briefly before touching the polished brass handle. The cold of the metal cuts through my bones. Inside, a single candle casts its irregular, orange glow on the dark furniture. The uncanny, oppressive silence sends a shiver down my spine. I’ve stepped into a time warp. A pocket of time.
There’s a birthday card on the dining table. I take a seat and take the card in my trembling hands, preparing myself to receive an omen.
The empty chairs shift in mockery. They stare at me, creaking, blaming me for my lack of substance.
The card is empty, and yet--
My void has never felt so full of dread.
Line Langager is a disabled writer from Denmark, previously accepted by Wingless Dreamer Publisher, as well as self-published with the titles "A Spare Key" and "The Milk Carton: A Short Story."