the buffet, Emily Huang

Leland Quarterly | Spring 2022

the buffet

Emily Huang

on the first day, the girl walks into the buffet.

the innards of the buffet are vast, vast beyond comprehension. the walls are bare, the floor is barer, and the ceiling is all but invisible. they fade into the murk and dimness of the endless, empty space, which is actually rather deceiving in its perceived emptiness. impossibly long lengths of glittering, rusty metal stretch and wind around the entirety of the building’s insides, eagerly clogging into every inch of free space they can squeeze into. these are the food aisles, carting every single culinary style, food group, and culture one could wish for, served steaming, freezing, lukewarm, raw, overcooked, spiked, and all of the above. where an aisle meets an unyielding corner or some surface or another aisle, it curves around instead, climbing like a sticky insect onto a nearby open space until it can safely deposit itself back onto solid ground.

as if in a competition for dominance with the visual grandeur of the space, relentless, deafening sound spills into every pore of the room; the oblivious clattering of silverware, the phlegmy outbursts of raucous laughter, the piercing hollow pinging of glasses and plates, the mushy grinding and chomping of teeth against oily flesh and sinews and fibers and granulated sugar.

the girl feels nauseous. she leaves.

on the second day, the girl walks into the buffet.

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the smell of rotting food and artificial sweetness encircles her in a sweaty embrace. before she can decide what to do next, a woman dressed in all black knocks into her. the girl looks up, startled. the woman looks back at her and beams. stacked precariously in her hands is a pile of plates, dripping with grease. split. splat. fat, congealed droplets crash to the dirty ground discordantly.

“are you a waitress?” asks the girl.

the woman chortles, half-chewed food spraying out of her mouth. “waitress?” she grins widely, showing rows of teeth stained brown and gray. “there are no waitresses or waiters here. i’m with my husband and friends for my wedding.” her hot breath wafts into the girl’s face, carrying the oily scents of burger patty and tuna and barbecue sauce. she winks at the girl, and the girl fights back the bile rising in her throat.

the girl tries to breathe shallowly. “for the afterparty?”

“oh, no, no,” says the woman, smacking her lips. “we just had our entire wedding ceremony here. real popular spot, it is. everyone’s talking about how it’s got the best food these days.” she winks again. there’s a smear of barbecue sauce on her chin. “things to look forward to, eh? i knew i wanted to get married here ever since i was a tiny schoolgirl. and then i met the one in here. dreams really do come true.”

the girl tries to smile.

“well, girlie, i’d better be off.” the woman pats her stomach and burps, then shakily balances all the plates on one hand as she pulls out a handkerchief from her pocket and wipes her mouth daintily. “nobody can ever get enough of this place, right? good thing it’s

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the buffet | Emily Huang

always here!”

the woman tucks the handkerchief back into her pocket and begins to saunter off in a food-drunken waddle.

“wait,” says the girl. “where’s your wedding dress?”

the woman pauses and swivels around, eyeing the girl critically. “we don’t believe in that kind of stuff anymore,” she tuts. “it’s all about maximizing cleanliness. this outfit is the best one i own, because it looks the least dirty while eating.” shooting the girl one final pinched smile, the woman turns and strolls away, an air of condescension trailing in her wake.

the girl leaves.

on the third day, the girl meets a boy.

he walks in after she has already arrived. she sees him push through the heavy doors, the light from the outside glancing off the bare walls and casting shadows along his angled features. he stands tall, so tall, and so very handsome. and he is standing still, just like her.

she stares and stares until she remembers, foggily, what the woman had said about love and marriage and weddings and food. she takes a few confident strides towards the raw food aisle, empty-handed, fists clenched, brain blank.

out of the corner of her eye, she sees the boy approach. he wears a shy smile. one hand is stuffed into a pocket.

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Leland Quarterly | Spring 2022

“first time here?” his voice is cool water, low and smooth, running through the girl’s heart.

the girl begins to nod, but then reconsiders and changes it into a vigorous shake.

the boy exhales softly, still smiling. “well, it’s my first time. to be honest, i’m feeling a bit overwhelmed!”

the girl laughs lightly with him, the sound evaporating off her skin. she looks at the boy’s face. it is beautiful; his cheeks are slightly flushed, and his eyes bear a mischievous twinkle. she feels a sudden wave of trust for this boy rush through her body.

she clears her throat and looks down. “it’s actually my first time here, too. technically.” she balls her hand into a fist. “i don’t feel hungry.”

“me neither,” says the boy. he takes her hand, the one that isn’t balled.

she sighs and thinks, no, what i mean to say is, i don’t feel hungry. ever. and i don’t know what’s wrong with me, because there’s all this food here, but i know there must be something wrong with me, because everyone else seems to feel hungry at all the right times and in all the right ways.

she imagines saying it aloud to him. the fantasy feels so relieving and so wrong all at once.

the boy squeezes her hand. “i understand,” he says, “and i think it’s okay to take this slow. we should eat only when we feel hungry.”

the girl turns to face him in awe. she never thought she’d find

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someone else like her. the boy returns the stare, looking deeply into her eyes. he clutches her other hand, which has relaxed out of its clench without her noticing. he pulls her closer to him until there are only whispers of space left between their bodies.

“wait,” murmurs the girl, eyelids half-closed. “then what are you doing here?”

and then the boy is kissing her, and she is kissing him back, and as their tongues dance and their hands roam and their breaths increase and entwine, the gluttonous clamor of the buffet shrivels up into an invisible backdrop.

on the fourth day, the boy is there again.

as before, he arrives after her, making eye contact with her the moment he steps inside as though he had been looking for her.

he approaches her at a brisk pace before she has even made a beeline for an aisle, and stops his stride when he is between her and a stack of unused plates. he gestures towards them with a hopeful expression.

“there’s lava cake in the eastmost aisle,” he says to her. “my favorite. want to go get some?”

the girl knits her eyebrows. “i’m not hungry,” she says hesitantly, and it comes out sounding like, “i’m not hungry?”

the boy’s face droops a little. the change is to the most minute of degrees, but the girl sees it.

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“i’ll walk with you,” she offers, and she does, her arm in his arm, his hand balancing a plate. at the eastmost aisle, he loads his plate with lava cake and pauses, turning to her.

“have some,” he says, his tone taking on a hint of pleading. in his hand is the giant pastry server, laden with another slice of cake.

the girl swallows and stares at the cake slice. it is dense and leaking with burning, fatty, heavy chocolate. “maybe tomorrow.”

the boy’s face droops again, and he drops the cake onto his own plate without another word. the girl watches him eat the cake, forkful by forkful, swallow by swallow. she watches the way his jaw moves as he chews. when he’s finished, they kiss, his tongue pushing globs of chocolatey saliva into her mouth.

on the fifth day, the boy is already there.

he is standing by the door; she sees him as soon as she enters. nearly walks into him. in his hand is a plate of lava cake. one single, puny slice.

he thrusts the plate towards her, and her hands instinctively fly up, fingers closing around the rim. he moves to face her, blocking the doors. his face is stamped with desperation and confusion.

“what are we?” he asks her, voice tinged with sadness and hope and anxiety. she looks away as heat floods her cheeks, and he moves with her, trying to stay in her field of vision. “what are we?” he asks again. “why won’t you eat? do you care for me as i do for you? do i mean anything at all to you?” he moves closer to her, and she realizes he does not understand he is blocking her only

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exit.

“of course,” replies the girl. “of course.” she looks at the plate again, eyes probing the length of the fork sticking erect out of the slice.

“then why won’t you enjoy my favorite dessert with me?” implores the boy. his hands move to hers, wrapping her fingers around the handle of the fork. she shivers.

“i don’t share my favorite dessert with just anyone,” he continues. “you don’t need to feel very hungry to try a small bite. just one little bite.”

the girl stares hard at her curled fingers, which are trembling so hard that they are causing the fork’s tines to shake within the cake’s flesh.

“please. for me?”

she feels his hot breath drench her hair and trickle down her neck. he is close enough for her to feel his heartbeat pounding, pounding. every inch of his body beats anxiously, hopefully. she can’t tell if the air in her nostrils is hers or his. head spinning, she grabs the fork and dislodges it, stuffing a chunk of chocolate into her mouth and biting down. her throat immediately constricts, rejecting the thick, overpowering sweetness. the boy beams, watching her intently.

“that’s it,” he whispers, letting his hands float down her body in a whisper of a caress.

the girl’s eyes begin to water as she chews, but as his hands

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Leland Quarterly | Spring 2022

continue to traverse the landscape of her figure, she realizes she has never felt so precious, so admired, so loved. she jabs the fork back into the cake’s burnt brown body and sticks another scoop in between her lips, humming with a noise she thought one might make while enjoying something delicious. the boy sighs happily, his burning eyes never leaving her face.

forkful by forkful, swallow by swallow, the girl eats, quickly learning how to force her nausea down and moan in pleasure and gratitude instead.

as the girl eats, she begins to bleed.

long slits dash down her breasts and torso and thighs, zippering her open. she feels something inside her below her belly tear open, pooling sharp, sticky warmth between her legs, and something in her chest convulses sporadically. she is becoming nothinged. a dotted line, a question mark, a bleeding placeholder. she ignores it all.

the boy cheers, feeding her another forkful, and leads her to a table where several other people are seated and shoveling food into their mouths with vigor. the girl sits down and bleeds all over the chair and floor, her insides spilling onto their table, but none of them seem to notice. their eyes are trained on their plates, their stomachs and throats growling with desire as they swallow.

the boy claims his own seat and whoops with joy, piling his plate high with an assortment of steaming fats and oily sinews and fibers that emit piercing fumes. he can’t take his eyes off of the girl. every so often, he sets his fork down and clasps the girl’s wet, paling hand in his, proclaiming, i love you, i love you, i love you,

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