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He couldn’t stand it. The way his friends behaved, chatting and laughing, as if they had all the time in the world, around the round plastic table at Fatty Crab. The way they chugged their beer, picked chicken wings with their white chopsticks, opened their mouths to crunch the bones.
They knew he loved crabs. So they’d brought him there to celebrate his return to life, or whatever was left of it. But he hated them, hated how they could afford to not count their days. He sat watching his overweight friends in shorts and t-shirts, when a sweating waiter brought plates to the table: pepper crabs, crabs with roe, chili crabs.
As the belly-up crabs lay on the plates, he thought he saw one of the big claws move, open and close. His girlfriend picked up another claw, laughing at a friend’s joke. She twisted the claw without looking, breaking it. He winced. I am a Cancer, how did I ever eat crabs? What did the crab feel? It didn’t feel a thing, don’t be silly. Dig in.
But just as he lifted his hand, the crabs began to right themselves one by one before his disbelieving eyes, their broken claws back in place. They clambered out of the plates, dripping sauce. The crabs scurried over the tables, falling into people’s laps, nipping hands, swinging from skirts. Women screamed all around him, men jumped and stomped in weird war dance, children wailed.
He knew how the crabs felt as their claws were broken. That is how his arms and legs had felt before his Chemo, still did sometimes. And the crabs knew he knew it. He sat in his chair as crabs poured out of tables into the mayhem around him.
They knew he loved crabs. So they’d brought him there to celebrate his return to life, or whatever was left of it. But he hated them, hated how they could afford to not count their days. He sat watching his overweight friends in shorts and t-shirts, when a sweating waiter brought plates to the table: pepper crabs, crabs with roe, chili crabs.
As the belly-up crabs lay on the plates, he thought he saw one of the big claws move, open and close. His girlfriend picked up another claw, laughing at a friend’s joke. She twisted the claw without looking, breaking it. He winced. I am a Cancer, how did I ever eat crabs? What did the crab feel? It didn’t feel a thing, don’t be silly. Dig in.
But just as he lifted his hand, the crabs began to right themselves one by one before his disbelieving eyes, their broken claws back in place. They clambered out of the plates, dripping sauce. The crabs scurried over the tables, falling into people’s laps, nipping hands, swinging from skirts. Women screamed all around him, men jumped and stomped in weird war dance, children wailed.
He knew how the crabs felt as their claws were broken. That is how his arms and legs had felt before his Chemo, still did sometimes. And the crabs knew he knew it. He sat in his chair as crabs poured out of tables into the mayhem around him.
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