“Just one please”
Started with a bite, not a generous mouthful. Reflected on the awkward situation with the maitre d’ a moment ago. Surprisingly the words “just one please” came out with barely a whisper. Self consciously picked a table by the corner, sat down and stared around the room. I was conscious being alone. The light music danced across the restaurant and the waiters were impeccable, but that wasn’t the point. I was having dinner alone, and I was uneasy.
The second bite, not a big mouthful. Took out my phone, browsed through the contacts from A to Z; again and again. The sense of awkwardness was heavy. I imagined people gawking behind my back. Dining had not been this stressful before. I miss quibbling over who pays, the awkward pauses, the “my boyfriend is cheating on me again” story, the sarcasm and the lame jokes.
One more bite, not a bountiful mouthful. My favorite steak tasted like shit today. I suppose we were ingrained to believe that meals are communal activities. Back in school, the kids who ate alone are the kids who didn’t have anyone to eat with. Socially, eating alone is not a sign of strength, it was a sign of weakness. A complete lack of social standing. We rarely eat alone because we were taught not to. Rather we were not taught how to.
The last bite, a sinful mouthful. I wanted to leave that room so badly. This whole solitary dinner idea was an awful one. I felt heavy and nauseated. I gulped down my chardonnay, asked for the bill, paid, and took off. I was trying to recall which sucker told me that eating alone is as good as a treat. That I’m going to enjoy the food and wine by myself. That I would have time to ponder on the possibilities of life. Save the bullshit.
Then just as I walk past the entrance, I heard a fashionable lady uttered softly to the maitre d’, “just one please”.
