Second Bowl
I didn’t plan to go in. I was walking past, thinking about something I don’t remember. Then I wasn’t. The salad bar was just there, fluorescent and humming, cold air leaking from the edges.
The bowls were stacked too neatly. Warm to the touch. Held too long. I picked one, hoping the spots were just water.
Lettuce first. The shredded kind that never feels like food. Olives. I always add olives. I don’t like them. Chickpeas next. Cottage cheese. A handful of shredded carrots. There was no plan. Just habit.
The egg bin was fogged over. I skipped it.
At the end, I hovered over the dressings. Vinaigrette. Ranch. Something pink and suspicious. I poured more than I meant to, watched it pool, moved on.
Someone in front of me dropped a beet slice and didn’t notice. It left a wet mark on the tile. No one cleaned it up. I stepped around it.
I circled once before heading to the register. The bowl was heavier than I expected. I hadn’t noticed how much I’d taken. I didn’t recognize it once it was all together. The cashier didn’t look up. I paid in silence, took the tray, walked to the far side of the room.
I sat near the window. Not close enough to see out. I picked at the edge of the napkin.
Rearranged things with the fork. Moved a tomato, then moved it back. Nothing tasted like I thought it would.
When I stood to leave, I took the tray with me. Passed the bar again without thinking. And then I stopped. I wasn’t hungry. I didn’t need more.
I picked up another bowl.
This one came together faster.
All iceberg. No pause. Blue cheese until I couldn’t see the bottom. Gravely bacon bits. A spoonful of corn. I reached for raisins and changed my mind halfway through. They spilled anyway. No pattern. No restraint. I didn’t even look at the dressings this time. I knew what I’d take. Knew I’d take too much.
The first bowl was still on my tray, leaking through the napkin. I didn’t look at it.
No one said anything. No one needed to. I balanced the second bowl next to the first. Not carefully, just enough that it stayed upright.
I walked out like I hadn’t done anything strange. Like this was the plan all along.
You’re not supposed to take two.
But I smiled like I knew the owner.
That’s usually enough.
Ryan T. Pozzi is a writer and cultural critic who explores legacy, myth, and reputation, with particular attention to who shapes our understanding of history. His debut, The Mess That Made Them, is forthcoming from Bloomsbury. His writing has been accepted by Rattle, Fjords Review, Northern New England Review, and Ponder Review, among others. He is a 2025 Best of the Net nominee. Find him at ryantpozzi.com or on social media @ryantpozzi.