He Eats with His Fingers Now

God doesn't hand out spoons.

He eats with his fingers now.

Not because he wants to. Because the spoon he stole from the shelter cracked last week, and nobody gives out cutlery without a lecture anymore. The ones that do expect you to stay for a sermon or a circle where they ask what three things you're grateful for, and he can't bring himself to lie that hard today.

The peanut butter jar is almost empty.

It had a red lid once, bright and proud like a flag. Now it’s smudged, the label peeled and curled like it’s trying to escape. The plastic is soft from heat and handling, warped in one spot from where it sat too long in the sun. He keeps it tucked in his backpack with the rest of his shame: a sock without a match, a bus transfer from a month ago, a picture of a dog he doesn’t have anymore.

There’s a little left.

There’s always a little left.

That’s the lie that keeps him digging.

He squats behind the gas station dumpster because it’s the only place out of the wind. The smell is bad, but everything smells like something now. Rotten food. Spilled gas. His own sweat, sharp and sour. It’s not gross anymore—it’s just background noise.

His legs hurt, but he’s learned to hold still long enough that they go numb. That’s a skill now. He tells himself that sometimes. “I’m learning things.” Like how to sleep on concrete. How to pick socks that dry faster. How to make a dollar stretch across two days and still feel like a failure when it’s gone.

He scoops out the peanut butter with a finger he hasn’t washed in two days. The taste is sharp, oily, and old. It clings to his throat. Like guilt. Like failure. Like the kind of hunger that doesn’t live in your belly anymore, but in your teeth, in your spine, in the way you start forgetting how full ever felt.

He licks the last bit off his knuckle, then wipes his hand on his pants. They were black once. Now they’re just a color he doesn’t name. There’s no point.

He stares at the jar.

It’s not empty.

Not technically.

But it looks like him. Scraped out. Hollowed. Still pretending to be useful.

He used to have a name. A job. A routine. He had a calendar with color-coded reminders, a group chat full of people who knew his birthday. He used to make fun of people like this. People who carried jars and slept by loading docks. Called them drifters. Addicts. Losers. Told himself they got what they deserved.

Now he’s just hungry.

Not starving. Not yet.

Just hungry enough to wish the jar had one more spoonful in it. Just broken enough to wonder if maybe he deserves less.

He doesn’t know what day it is anymore. Not in the real way. Not in the way that matters. He keeps time in rations now. Three crackers ago. Two cigarettes ago. Half a bottle of water ago. He used to have apps for this kind of thing. Tracking, organizing, improving. Little bars that told him how healthy or successful or hydrated he was. Now he hasn’t pissed clear in four days and considers it a kind of freedom.

His phone still turns on, but he doesn’t. It’s just a rectangle of reminders he’s not strong enough to open. Messages from people he lied to. Emails from jobs he didn’t get. A notification from the bank reminding him his balance is a number with a minus sign in front of it.

Once, a girl he used to know texted: “Hey, just checking in. Are you okay?”

He stared at it for ten minutes and never replied. What do you even say to that?

“Yeah. Just sitting in the dirt behind a Chevron eating expired peanut butter with my fingers. Living the dream.”

He imagines her deleting his contact. That feels fair. He’d delete himself if he could.

He tucks the jar back into the bag like it’s sacred. Like it’s proof he still exists. Something to carry. Something that carries him. Sometimes he thinks if he keeps the jar long enough, it'll fill itself again. Sometimes he thinks that's how stupid he’s become—praying to garbage like it’s holy.

He used to cry when things got bad.

Now he just gets quiet.

And mean.

Not to others, but to himself. He hears his own voice in his head saying things he’d never say to a friend.

You’re pathetic.
You had chances.
You fucked them all.
No one’s looking for you.
You don’t even have a face anymore. Just bones and skin and shame.

He’s learned how to disappear. That’s another skill. Step small. Don’t make eye contact. Shrink. Nobody stops someone who looks like they’re already gone.

A car drives past the alley entrance, headlights sweeping the wall. He doesn’t flinch. He used to. Now he just waits for it to pass. People don’t stop here. That’s why he picked it.

He curls up beside the chain-link fence, coat zipped up to his chin. The zipper snags, like it always does. Like it’s fighting him. He gets it. He’d fight himself too.

Tomorrow, he’ll try to find somewhere open. Somewhere with light. Somewhere with a dollar menu. Maybe he’ll lie well enough to get a free cup of coffee. Maybe someone will hand him a sandwich wrapped in too much napkin. Maybe he’ll find a new spoon.

Maybe not.

Tonight he has the jar.

And it has him.

They belong to each other now.

Both past their prime.
Both clinging to what little they have left.
Both still pretending they might be worth something.