The heat was a hammer, beating the inside of his mouth raw. After a breakup like the one he’d just gone through, consuming enough capsaicin to strip the skin felt deeply satisfying—cathartic, even. Only the cold march of the clock could quench this fire.
This last one had been a doozy, too. He'd been seeing this girl for over a year, found himself getting serious with her even though he knew that serious, committed relationships rarely went well. So why had he done it? Because he couldn't help falling in love? Brittany was the first girl he had dated who enjoyed comic books almost as much as he did. He didn't have to hide his collection. He didn't have to hide away his Batman alarm clock. He could wear all of his t-shirts. He could be himself around her, for the most part.
The first time he had called in an order for pick-up, and they asked him how spicy he would like his meal, he told them "ผมเก่งเผ็ดครับ. I like it hot." They knew he meant business; and they delivered. The Thai Spice became his go-to place when he needed emotional solace, when he needed non-narcotic medication.
By hot he means he wants to hallucinate. Tonight he wants to float in ecstatic capsaicin-induced harmony like a coke addict on a high or an alcoholic on a bender. He couldn't break up with her face-to-face. That would've been better, but it wasn't possible, not with her. Once he looked into those big, hazel eyes of hers, he knew he would lose all courage and end up mumbly something incoherent, eventually professing a deeper sense of love and commitment to her. Which of course wasn't a lie, but it was an unsustainable love. The cracks and fissures from earlier relationships were already evident, and he did not want things going too far, not with her. He had loved the others, but then, the ups and the downs, he wound up despising them.
He can still hears his therapist's voice in his head: "If you begin to feel insecure, go over the list I've given you. Are any of the signs there, the vocal cues?" As if a list were a map to the female psyche. The signs were there, on the paper, in his head, and in his heart. The jealousy had begun rising fast with her, faster than any time before with the any other. "This isn't a healthy way to cope, David." Chilis are rich in antioxidants. On the contrary, it was an extremely healthy way of coping.
He calls up the Thai Spice restaurant and puts in an order for "the usual," but he asks for a couple extra cups of the especially hot sauce. "A special occasion tonight," he told Siriporn.
In a short while his doorbell rings. He takes the food graciously from the driver, tips well, and shuts the door. He secures the deadbolt.
The white-plastic bowl glows in a neon-red light, as if it's radiating from some sort of nuclear material. Laab, his favorite dish, riddled with the red flesh of Thai chilis. He had asked for as many chilis as years on his drivers license.
He'd sent her a text. He didn't feel good about that, of course. It hadn't made the situation any better. It seems to have made it worse, since his phone is vibrating again. It made his heart sink further into the dark place it tends to go to. He's tried other methods in the past. He'd cut himself for a while, but that left scars. Drinking only made him vomit – and feel more depressed. Hashish sort of worked, numbed his emotions, but it didn't have that punitive aspects he sought.
When a dog is diagnosed with an incurable disease, such as rabies, it is given a euthanizing injection. Humans are shown no such pity. They are sent to hospitals, given medication that only numbs the symptoms, but that does nothing for the pain. They are sent to therapists and psychologists to talk in coded circles.
He gets up and puts even more of the sauce over his meat and rice.
He opens his mouth wide and chews with his eyes closed.
The first bite did not disappoint: He is bowled over on the floor. His head leaking fluids he didn't know were in there.
He continues to eat, and the heat continues to increase: every papilla on his tongue is like a burning wick. Breathing is difficult. Oxygen only fuels the flames. There is a clenching sensation in his stomach.
"I'm sorry, but this isn't going to work. You'll find someone better." That's what he had texted her. If she sat down and thought about it, she'd realize it had said enough. He couldn't have told her the truth. He didn't even know what the truth was: It was lost between idolatry and self-deprecation, between the consistently reaffirming fear of betrayal and repetitive validations of love.
His television shimmers with vibrant colors, spraying his wall with rainbows: the gold of dog, the grey of a wolf, the tears of a boy. His phone vibrates. Brittany's image alight on his phone lying alone on the table. He can hear her voice from across the chasm: "Just give me a chance." He lies with his back on the floor, his right hand over his stomach, his left hand rubbing his eyes until they are as red as the chili at the bottom of the bowl. Chili sauce leaks from the leg of his shorts.