I Lost Myself After Eating a Branzino Sandwich at Commons

It’s 6:15 pm, and I’m at war with my body.

Everything else is closed, and I’ve never been more starving. Despite my best judgment and sense of dignity, I do what I have to do and go to Commons. I first walk over to the vegan station. They’re serving some unlabeled green mush. When I ask what it is, they say, “I don’t know,” so I walk away. I begrudgingly arrive at what is usually the burger station, but then I'm reminded that God hates me.

Instead of any intuitive sandwich option, they are serving branzino sandwiches. No, not fried fish; a nice flash-frozen slab of lukewarm branzino sat in between an Italian roll. My hunger fights the logical part of my brain as I reach for the bin of fresh-ish sandwiches. However, before I can grab one, I’m stopped and told to finish out the other pile first.

The sandwiches in the “other pile” were the runts of the branzino litter. They were squished, brown, and had an odor so pungent I think I could see it. But nonetheless, I take one and sit at a secluded table where no one can see this pitiful display. 

As I chow down on this edible thing in my hands, my grasp on reality begins to slip. I try to recall anything about my former life: my mom, my purpose, and even my own name, but nothing works. 

This sandwich is all I am, and all I will ever be.