Going Out to Dinner



Going Out to Dinner


The antidepressants and anxiolytics stand ready, mixed with vodka.

Bang down with the hammer. It dents the laptop. Bang harder. Destroy it completely.  Leave no trace of my writing; no trace of myself.

But then I’m cold and in pain, ensnared in tubes.  I call out again and again. I don’t exist in this room of strangers confined to their beds, all in distress.

 “What are you going to do when you walk out of here now?” the hospital psychiatrist asks me. 

 “All I want to do is go home, take a shower, and go out to dinner.” 

I guess that’s what he wants to hear. All of a sudden I have to come up with a purpose, no matter how short term, just to get out.

He jots down in his notebook: “Woman aged sixty, suicide attempt, lucid, focused, and collaborative.”

Depression goes hand in hand with social anxiety. I’ve never eaten out alone in my life. 



Anita Lekic


Anita Lekic holds an M.A. in English and Ph.D. in Slavic Languages and Literatures. Taught at the State University of New York at Stony Brook as an adjunct professor and later moved to The Hague, Netherlands to work as a translator for the UN War Crimes Tribunal.  Now living in Portugal. Publications: articles in Counterpunch and in The Local Germany, and short stories in The RavensPerch, Streetlight Magazine, The Dark Ink Press, Typishly, Cagibi, The Bangalore Review and Wanderlust. One of the short stories was nominated for the Pushcart Prize.


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