booths

Last night, he took me to breakfast at 7. A consequence of not being able to name the last time I’d actually eaten a meal. It had probably been some time on Thursday. Too much and too quickly to know for sure. And so I sat as still as possible. Drank coffee and wished I knew how to be more insulting. More invisible. The greasy eggs and starchy potatoes looked accusingly in my direction. Like running into old friends I’d been avoiding. I knew that later I was going to be sick. An inevitability with every bite. But generally I do what he says. Right then, he wanted me to eat. And so I did.

We exchanged words. Not conversation, but of the sort where two people take turns making noises with their throats and mouths. Nothing depended on the other. Mostly I just stopped listening. Rocked back and forth in the booth to stay awake. And thought about all the times that my life depended on a greenly lit diner at night, a greasy plate of food, and a general feeling of hopelessness.

These last few days have certainly not been my best.