Last night Thursday night dinner normally but not cooked by me this Thursday night. Three men and a woman in a restaurant bar with peanut shells on the floor. I will not do it, cannot, build instead a growing pile on the placemat on the table. Prime rib here and here, swordfish there and all mine–twin softshell crab.
Always, ever, long as I remember back, there have been men beyond my man of the time and place I owned with him. Our home, a home for wayward men. New Year’s Eve I wear black velvet long and sleek and serve them stuffed shrimp and wine. Always, ever they are welcome in my home, our home. A lady in the company of men; one of the guys but not.
Tonight we’re out again, two couples now, and I fall for, must have the oysters for my meal. We talk across, diagonal and parallel, but the lady and I share something more and attached to the sterling bracelets that we wear. She has one, I wear two. I think someday she’ll wear all three together on her arm. Dainty slim and boldly lettered friends forever.
Always, ever, lovingly. Four friends and food.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
Nice! I can relate to that… except I cooked.