One of life’s great mysteries had finally been revealed to her.

It felt less like the great mystery had been revealed and more like it had splintered into millions of little mysteries jostling in the darkness.

FIRST FRIDAYS BY ZACH SWISS 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 93

“Two eggs or three today?” asks the man behind the counter and the woman says, “Make it three.” He whistles, says, “Must have a big day planned.” The griddle sizzles. “Hot sauce and pepper?” he asks and the woman replies, “You know how I like it.” She takes the tin-foiled sandwich and passes a five. “You have a good one, Mary,” he says, bumping the till shut with his thigh. “Who’s next?”

Sarah is next. “Bacon, egg, and cheese.” It’s the order she places every Friday. He does not ask how many eggs she’d like or if she wants hot sauce or pepper. Three would be nice and yes, she’d like both.

“Comes to $4.53. Ten dollar card minimum,” he says, placing the sandwich on the counter. Never once has she not paid cash and often she has exact change. “Have a good weekend,” Sarah says, but he has moved on to the next customer.

The office is out of milk she discovers too late, a Keurig pod already spent, her mug already filled. How long have the little cream packets been sitting there next to the toaster? She’s been with the company for three years and those packets may pre-date her. Black coffee it is then.

She takes a table in the back. The sandwich tastes stale, the coffee bitter. It’s Friday she reminds herself, the first Friday of the month. By evening the day’s indignities will seem distant.

Two co-workers sit nearby. “So you liked it?” asks the woman, tall and thin. A portly man, gestures emphatically, “I tell you, it was a revelation. The finest film I’ve seen in some time.” The woman agrees that the reviews have been glowing. “Those I’ve read have hardly done it justice,” he says. “Isabelle Luxembourg has directed a masterpiece.”

“I know her,” Sarah says, interjecting without meaning to. “We went to school together.” The co-workers stare.

“We didn’t know each other well but there was a party, a few years ago, just after graduation...” Sarah says.

Phones buzz with meeting notifications. “Excuse me,” the woman trills as she walks out. The man nods in Sarah’s general direction.

Her phone buzzes too. Still she sits. Lateness is out of character for her, a pet peeve even, but the time barely registers. Her mind is someplace else.

The only reason she’d gone to the party, the only reason she’d even heard about it, was Erin Crowder. They’d vaguely known each other at school, had reconnected at a young alumni event.

Erin had forwarded the invite, insisting all would be welcome. “Hope you can make it,” she’d said in her email. “We’d have a great time!”

Sarah knew of the hostess but did not actually know her, and would never have considered attending but for the “we” in Erin’s email with its subtle promise of shared intimacy. The “we” proved persuasive.

They arranged to meet in the lobby and head up to the party together. Sarah texted Erin from her apartment to confirm. No reply. She considered delaying or cancelling outright. But then Erin would just go without her, there’d be no more “we”. She texted again from the subway platform. Nothing.

From the lobby, gorgeous plush rug and sleek marble, she sent “Here!” No answer.