It is cloudy when we meet up. I rush into you, wrapping my arms around your waist, placing a quick kiss on your cheek, apologizing for my lateness and fall into the seat across from you. The place is cozy, but noisy. We are seated by the window.
The waitress asks what I would like.
"I haven't eaten all day!" I observe, realizing this for the first time. The menu was unappealing. "Do you have fresh bread? The one with the hard crust, fresh out of the oven? May I have a few slices of that, some brie, and a few slices of green apple?"
"Nothing from the menu?" She was already impatient with me. You suggest a glass of wine.
"Oh, yes. We'll have two glass of Riesling, please."
The day is already growing old, and the sun is going to set in a few hours. By the time we finish, it will be dark and almost dinner time. I am afraid to stay too long. I have to go. I always have to go.
You tell me about your new place. You tell me about your new projects. We discuss the news and winter shoes. I tell you about my state of being. People always say, "I'm good!" as if good is news. If we aren't in the gutter, we are all good. We tell acquaintances that we are good, but this would never do with intimate company. "I'm moving, I'm doing. I'm traveling there in two weeks." There are projects on the horizon as well, there are people counting on me, but I never talk about this aspect of my life with others. I forget that I have a nonprofit, I forget that we are doing something, that we've been doing something. I am uncomfortable all the sudden.
But your jokes bring me back. They break my silence, they force me out.
The glasses are now empty, but we are nourished.