We Ate Standing Up
by Angela Edward
I landed at JFK at night, around 10:30 p.m., already unsure. Baggage claim moved slowly. I stood watching the carousel loop again and again, the same suitcases circling back like a bad joke. When mine finally came, I lifted it off the belt and felt how heavy it was. We did not talk much. I could feel him watching me, waiting for something I could not name.
In the taxi, I made a joke about TSA detaining me. I said it lightly, smiling, trying to smooth the moment. He snapped back that it was not funny. His voice sharpened quickly, as if the day had already worn him thin. Outside the window, the city slid past in streaks of light and shadow. The air pressed in through the cracked window, humid and dense, sitting on my skin. I had expected cold. Instead, everything felt damp and close.
We argued the rest of the way. Nothing dramatic, just small cuts, his irritation rising, my explanations getting quieter. By the time we pulled up outside the apartment, my chest felt tight. My thoughts lagged behind what was happening. My body was already there.
The street was dark, only a few windows lit. Inside, the kitchen sat right by the door. I rolled my suitcase in and left it there, blocking the narrow path through. He pointed it out immediately, said we would have to step over it every time. I moved it into the smaller room. Later, he would be annoyed that it stayed there, still packed, as if the suitcase itself were an accusation.
I stood there for a moment, not sure what to do with my hands. He watched me, already restless. I was still wearing the skirt I had flown in. He looked at it and said it was too short. I felt myself shrink a little, the way you do when you realize you have already misjudged the rules of a place.
The space was fine. That was the word I kept using. I tried to unpack a few things but stopped halfway through. There was nowhere obvious to put anything. My clothes stayed folded in uneven stacks. He moved around the kitchen, opening cupboards, closing them again. I could feel myself in the way. I sat on the edge of the bed and stood back up. I did not settle. Fine. I suspended my disbelief. It did not feel like home, and it never would, though that became another point of contention later, how I never saw it as ours, how I always seemed temporary. That first night, though, I did not argue. I was tired.
We ate instant noodles because I suggested it. It was cheap, familiar, something I had always eaten back in Sydney. The packet tore open with a clean rip. The smell bloomed immediately, hot and savory, better than anything that took hours to cook. We had no table or chairs yet, so we stood in the kitchen and ate straight from the pot. He said it was fine. He said New Yorkers ate like this. He said, I’ve got you. The noodles burned my tongue. Steam fogged my face. I ate too fast and then slowed down, unsure of the pace. The pot sat between us, metal cooling as we worked through it. I almost said something about how strange it felt to be here at last, about how long I had imagined this moment. Instead, I said nothing. We finished standing there, the pot empty, the kitchen quiet except for the hum of the fridge. That night, I lay awake beside him, staring at the ceiling. The room smelled faintly of spice and detergent. His back was turned to me. I tried to match my breathing to his, slowing mine down when his deepened. I kept thinking about the suitcase in the other room, still zipped, still waiting. I wondered how long it would take before he mentioned it again.
At some point he rolled over and draped an arm across my waist. It felt automatic, like something practiced. I stayed still beneath it, careful not to move in a way that might wake him. I told myself this was what starting over felt like.
I did not sleep much. When I did, I dreamed of airports, of walking in the wrong direction down long corridors, of being called back after I had already passed through. The next day passed quietly. Too quietly. We moved around each other without touching, like we were learning the shape of the space again. He worked on his laptop at the kitchen counter. I sat on the bed and scrolled through my phone, reading messages I did not answer. Outside, the city moved on without us. Sirens, voices, a delivery truck idling too long. A neighbor practiced piano badly through the wall.
We ate standing up again. Something quick. I do not remember what. The day never seemed to start properly. I waited for instructions that did not come. When I asked what the plan was, he said we would figure it out. He said that a lot. At first it sounded reassuring. Later, it didn’t.
In the afternoon, I tried to unpack. I folded and unfolded the same shirt three times. I put it back in the suitcase. He noticed. He asked why I was doing that. I said I didn’t know where it should go. He shrugged and went back to his screen. The silence stretched. It felt heavy, like humidity before rain.
That night, we stood in the kitchen again. I remember thinking that sitting down would mean staying. When I finished first, I waited for him. I did not want to leave the room alone.
I believed him then, or at least I let the words land without question.
The J train became my quiet chronicler not long after, rattling over the Williamsburg Bridge, stitching days together with its rhythm. I stepped onto the platform at Marcy Avenue that winter night, lights haloed in frost, the cold sharp enough to wake you fully. The city glittered below, headlights slicing through dark streets, the metallic tang of rails mixing with exhaust. The train hummed with something electric, vibrating up through my boots. New York was still a stranger then, vast under its winter shroud.
The J carried me into Bushwick, past bodegas and brownstones blurred into snapshots. Each window framed another life, curtains drawn, televisions flickering blue. The car was half-empty, bodies bundled and quiet. I leaned against the pole and watched the East River slide beneath the bridge, ink-black and rippled, reflecting Manhattan lights like scattered coins.
That winter, we started most mornings the same way. One morning stands out. We woke late, light already filling the room in a thin gray wash. We pulled on coats and walked to the bodega without speaking much. The cashier nodded at us like he had already decided what kind of couple we were. We bought the noodles, the Coke Zero, the pills. Back home, I poured the boiling water, watched the surface ripple. He added hot sauce, then more, lining the bottles up along the counter. When the noodles were ready, he took the bowl from me without asking. I hesitated, then let it go. It felt easier not to make it a thing. We ate standing up. We were already late.
He added every kind of hot sauce he could find, lining the bottles up like trophies. Sometimes he would take the bowl from me without asking, as if sharing meant possession. I noticed it, the small irritation, but it felt affectionate then, something to smile at. We talked about work we hated, about what we might do next. We talked around money without touching it directly, circling the subject carefully, as if naming it might make it worse.
Streetlight filtered through half-closed blinds, striping the bed in gold. We stayed up talking because the hours refused to end, because words came easily then. We talked about books, about cities, about how people get swallowed whole by places if they let themselves. The M train rumbled somewhere below, making time feel elastic. We slurped noodles, laughed through the heat, brushed fingers passing the bowl back and forth.
By spring, things had shifted, subtle at first, the way a body notices pain only after it has settled in. Moving to Ridgewood meant boxes everywhere. Cardboard scraped along the floor. My suitcase followed us again, still full. He noticed. He commented on it. I told him I would get to it. The kitchen smelled like old oil. Even before the fight, I could feel it waiting. The first night in Ridgewood, we ate noodles again. The kitchen light flickered when we turned it on. The floor sloped slightly toward the sink. I stood with my back against the counter while he paced, opening drawers, testing cupboards. He complained about the smell, about how nothing ever felt clean here. I nodded, holding the bowl, waiting for him to finish his circuit.
When we ate, he scrolled on his phone. I watched the reflection of the screen move across his face. The noodles stuck together in thick clumps. I chewed slowly, already tired. At one point he asked if I was even listening. I said yes. I was always listening.
Later, when I went to unpack my suitcase, he asked why it was still full. I told him I would do it tomorrow. That suitcase stayed full longer than it should have. It became part of the room, something we walked around. I started to think of it as temporary storage, like I was only visiting myself. He laughed, sharp and short, like the answer confirmed something he already believed.
The fight I remember most happened on his birthday, February 16. The date lodged itself in my body. We were in the kitchen again. He leaned against the counter while he spoke, arms crossed, eyes fixed somewhere past me. I tried to answer him once, then again. Each time, he cut in before I finished. The noodles sat between us, steam long gone, surface congealing. I stared at them when I could not look at his face. My hands started to shake. I felt the heat under my skin before I saw it, the hives blooming across my chest. I pressed my arms against my sides, tried to breathe evenly. He kept talking. I tried to ground myself by naming things in the room. My heart was beating too fast. I could hear it in my ears. I focused on keeping my face still, on not crying, on not giving him something else to react to. The room felt smaller the longer he spoke. I noticed how the light above the sink flickered when the fridge kicked in. I wondered how long it had been doing that.
At some point, he stopped talking and looked at me like he was waiting for a response. I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. He sighed, loud and exaggerated, like my silence proved his point. I felt embarrassed by my own body, by how obvious everything felt.
I thought about leaving then. Not packing. Just walking out. I imagined the stairs, the street, the cold air. The thought passed. I stayed where I was. My arms pressed tighter against my sides. My skin itched. I could feel the hives spreading, heat without fire.
When he started again, it felt easier to let it happen. I stopped trying to keep up. I stared at the noodles until they no longer looked like food. The sink. The window. The stain on the wall near the light switch. I told him to stop. He did not. His voice stayed even, which somehow made it worse.
When I opened my mouth again, he said, see, this is what I mean, and shook his head. I closed it. The noodles had cooled into a single mass. I touched the edge of the bowl and pulled my hand back. The heat was gone.
I thought about apologizing just to end it. I thought about saying nothing and letting it burn out. Instead, I stood there, arms pressed to my sides, waiting for my body to calm down. It did not. I stood by the counter. The noodles sat untouched, cooling, forgotten. He told me he did not care for me. He said it plainly, without flourish. I felt my chest tighten, the room tilt slightly.
I asked why I had uprooted my life then. Why I had spent all my money. Why I was here if he did not care. My hands started to shake. My skin prickled. I felt heat rising under my collarbones, hives blooming across my chest and arms.
You’re a pick me, he said.
You remind me of my ex’s mother.
Our love is a dumpster fire.
You only pretend to be like a girl because you’re autistic.
The words stacked themselves quickly, one after another, leaving no space to respond. I wanted to tell him how hurt I felt, but every attempt was swallowed. He talked over me, louder, sharper. At some point he said I looked better over video. That one landed differently, quieter, but deeper.
The noodles stayed cold. I did not eat them. The bowl sat on the bench until the next day, when it went into the trash. That night, we slept separately. I took sleeping pills. The room felt too bright even with the lights off, moonlight sneaking in, the silence louder than any argument.
After that, the fights escalated like the spice levels. We bought the ghost pepper variants, wrappers screaming warnings. We ate not from hunger but for the burn, for something to distract from the rot setting in. The kitchen became a battleground. We stood because sitting would have made it feel permanent.
One morning, I left early. I packed badly. Clothes went in without folding. Something fell and I left it where it landed. The cats sat in the doorway, watching me move back and forth. I kept thinking I should take them, then knowing I could not. I zipped the suitcase and felt how light it was, how much I was leaving behind. I did not take much. I left the cats behind. I still see them in my mind, sitting in the ransacked apartment, watching me move around with my suitcase. I wished I could take them with me. At the airport, I sat on the floor near my gate with my suitcase between my knees. I watched families cluster around chargers, couples argue quietly, people asleep in uncomfortable positions. My phone stayed dark. I did not check the time. I did not message anyone to say where I was.
When they called my group, I stood slowly. My legs felt thin, unreliable. As I walked down the jet bridge, I realized I felt relief before sadness. That surprised me. I held onto that feeling, small and private.
I lugged my luggage to the station and waited fifteen minutes on the platform. The man leaning nearby rocked slowly, folded into himself. I stood still, feeling the straps cut into my hands. I knew I was going to the airport. That part was clear. Everything after that felt blank. My body already knew what my mind had not caught up to yet. I felt hollow, used up, done. It was early. The air was thin and gray.
The J train arrived with its familiar jolt. Doors hissed open. I stepped inside.
I learned its cadence the way you learn a body. The snap at Myrtle Avenue. The long exhale across the bridge where the city opens. The quiet descent after Canal Street, lights flickering like faulty memories. I rode it to move, not to arrive.
When I packed for good, I hesitated over everything. Dirty clothes. Old notebooks. A T-shirt from a moving sale we had bought for a dollar. I left a lot behind. Later, I would see a photo of him wearing that shirt. I did not reach out.
The ramen cupboard was empty when I closed the door for the last time. We had eaten it all. The apartment was silent in a way that felt jarring, like a held breath finally released. The lock clicked. The stairwell echoed. Outside, the city kept moving.
Angela Edward is a Chinese New Zealand writer based in Sydney. Her work has appeared in Brevity, The Citron Review, Meniscus, Gone Lawn and Flash Frontier. She is currently completing her debut memoir, Two Keys. More of her work can be found at angelaedward.net.