Said and Done ~ fiction by Jonathan Daniel Gardner

I woke mid-emergency, no sirens, just consequences. Twelve hours of accidental sleep after two days awake is not rest, it’s an ambush. My mouth tasted like I’d been chewing batteries. My body registered gravity as a personal insult. The room was full of aftermath.

I checked my phone and understood too much at once. Pia’s film. The butcher. This was now a scheduling problem.

Forty-five minutes until the film place by Washington Square Park closed. Twenty minutes until Dellapietras locked their door on Atlantic. A five-bone standing rib roast with my name on it. I was at Court and Degraw, still half in the past, still arguing with my nervous system.

I stood up and everything tilted politely. I made a quick stop at the kitchen counter to remind my blood what it was supposed to be doing. The room snapped into place, sharp. My heart took it to itself. We negotiated briefly and reached a ceasefire.

Shoes. Keys. Coat. I checked my pockets like this was where it would go wrong.

Outside, Cobble Hill was already in evening mode, which felt cruel. People were walking dogs. Living whole lives. I jogged toward Atlantic like I’d been issued a subpoena. My legs were stiff with sleep and apathy. I kept checking my phone, hoping it might apologize.

Dellapietras glowed like a shrine. I burst in convinced this would read as maturity later.

“I’m here for a rib roast,” I said, breathless.

The butcher looked me up and down. “Name?”

I told him. He nodded and disappeared. I leaned against the counter and did another tiny morale adjustment, pretending to blow my nose. The glass case shimmered approvingly.

He came back with it wrapped in white paper and twine, enormous, biblical. Five bones of authority. I paid too fast.

“You need a bag?” he asked.

“I need forgiveness,” I said. “But sure.”

He bagged it anyway. I hoisted the roast like a newborn and ran for Borough Hall.

Borough Hall swallowed me whole. The 2 train was coming in six minutes, which was unacceptable. The 4 was due in two, and I decided to believe in something. I took the stairs two at a time, the roast thudding against my thigh like punctuation.

On the platform, I caught my reflection in the dark glass. Red-eyed and deeply committed. Carrying a cow through public transit like this was always the plan. I nodded at myself in solidarity.

The 4 arrived screaming. I got on and immediately forgot where I was going. Then remembered. Then remembered again, louder. My jaw clicked into place. I held the roast between my feet like a loyal dog. People stared. One woman smiled at me like this had happened to her once.

Between stops, I adjusted my sleeve and performed a brief administrative action. The orchestra in my head tuned up, pleased. The roast seemed to weigh less. I nodded at it, grateful.

I got off at Union Square because I panicked, then got back on because I panicked better.

When I finally surfaced, Washington Square Park was crowded with people who knew where they were.

I ran across the park clutching the roast like evidence. A saxophonist nodded like he was satisfied with the chain of custody.

The film place was half-closed when I hit the door.

“I’m here for Pia’s film,” I said, already apologizing with my face.

The guy behind the counter glanced at the clock. “You made it.”

I exhaled hard and slapped the roast in triumph.

He slid the envelope toward me. I grabbed it and tucked it inside my jacket like a secret.

We made eye contact.

“Is that—” he started.

“Yes,” I said. “The order mattered.”

He nodded. “I need to lock up.”

Back outside, I did another small thing for my great victory and covered it with a cough.

The orchestra surged, then stood down. The roast radiated heat through the bag, comforting, obscene. I held it too close, like proof I was solid.

On the way home, I missed my stop once, staring at the film envelope like it could revoke itself. When I finally got off, the street caught me and said walk.

Back in my apartment, I set the roast on the counter like a trophy and the film beside it like proof of competence. My hands were shaking, but only in the useful directions.

I thought: this is what friendship looks like sometimes. Meat and celluloid and panic. I lay down on the floor fully clothed and let my heart do laps.

Nothing exploded. Nothing closed early.

The floor was cold.

The day released me.

Jonathan Daniel Gardner is originally from Asheville, North Carolina, and currently lives and writes in Brooklyn, New York. His work has appeared in Change Seven Magazine, Maudlin House, and Avalon Literature and Arts Magazine, with pieces forthcoming in Blood+Honey and Beyond Words. He holds a degree in Creative Writing from The New School, works at a cocktail bar, and is currently completing his first novel, In Moon I Keep You.