Chapter Two - The Food Court Pilgrimage

CHAPTER TWO

The Food Court Pilgrimage

THE ESCALATOR HUMS like it knows a secret.
I ride it like I’ve done this before. Because I have. Because we all have.
Every mall pilgrim has taken this climb.

At the top: light.

And beneath that light, the food court.

The scent hits you first. Sweet, salty, MSG-forward.
Your third eye opens somewhere between the Panda Express and the cinnabon stand.

First stop: Free Samples.
An eternal tradition passed down from kiosk to kiosk by slightly dead-eyed teens with plastic trays and the patience of saints.

The Bourbon Chicken Guy gives me a cube on a toothpick.
I nod. He nods.
No words. Just cubes and truth.

The girl at the teriyaki stand asks if I want to try.
I say, “I already did.”
She says, “It’s okay, you can have another.”
And just like that—I believe in love again.

Someone from Chick-fil-A hands me a mini waffle fry in a tiny paper sleeve like it’s communion.
He says, “My pleasure,” but it feels like he’s saying “I see you.”

In the corner, a family debates the moral weight of choosing Sbarro over Subway.
The youngest child says, “The pizza knows what it is.”
I don’t know what that means, but I feel it in my chest.

I get a lemonade from somewhere with a name like Sunshine Sips.
It tastes like summer and a hint of floor cleaner. I love it anyway.

I sit at a table that wobbles slightly. All mall tables do.
The man across from me is eating five plates of food by himself.
He catches me looking.
He says, “You never know when the trial ends.”
I nod solemnly and pretend I understand.

A pigeon walks by like it pays rent here.
Someone drops a fry.
It’s gone before it hits the ground.

A couple sits next to me and argues about Crumbl Cookies.
He says they’re a scam. She says they’re art.
I silently vote for her.

I check my phone.
Three missed calls.
One text: “Did you find your wallet yet?”
I smile.

Still totally normal.