Posted in art, poetry, writing

Solo Dining

Solo Dining  I’m counting the droplets as they accumulate on the other side of this window.  I shiver, too aware of the chill trapped in the glass, drinking my water too quickly  without pause of conversation. I’ve already been to the bathroom once, lugged all my stuff with me—purse, coat, phone— uncertain if I could trust its loneliness at the empty table.  I’m pretty sure they had sex last night.   My server tells me she remembers me from last time, it’s the side of peanut butter, my signature.  She says she admires the solo dining. I chuckle, an utterance infused with amusement and lies, wondering when I got so used to eating alone.   I lay my napkin across my lap, adhering to the good graces of decorum, even though no one is here to care if I pull the pieces of my French toast apart with my hands or if I lick my fingers or that I dragged my bracelet through my maple syrup, pulling a trail of sticky across the table or that I used my spit to shine up the charm again.   I know they had sex last night.  She’s in his bed now, a morning cuddle.   My server asks if she can get me anything else. A shot of whiskey, I think.  She fills up my water before bringing the bill. I’ve sucked it dry by the time I sign the receipt.

The weather’s bringing me down today. Side note: I’m also obsessed with this FOB song.

This is usually the moment I tell you to make the most of the rest of your weekend, but that would be hypocritical as I’m currently sitting on a couch in the dark basement of my parents’ house. At least I’m listening to pop punk.

–Leanne Rebecca

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Author:

Poetry and music.

7 thoughts on “Solo Dining

  1. Here’s my favorite lines: “or that I dragged my bracelet through my maple syrup, / pulling a trail of sticky across the table / or that I used my spit to shine up the charm again.” Vividly and viscerally descriptive. Great work!

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