kevinlyledillon:

“It does something to me,” I say. 

“It?” she asks.

“Watching people eat alone,” I reply, gazing carelessly around the restaurant. I look at my empty plate. My stomach turns. “You should try it some time. It doesn’t matter who they are. A serial rapist. A genocidal dictator. I don’t care. It’s the saddest thing to watch.”

Morgan throws her hand in the air, trying to catch the waitress’s attention. She needs more wine. “Why would I want to watch somebody eat? Are you a voyeur or something?”

I laugh, nervously. I’ve never been good on first dates. Then again, who is? “Neither am I. It’s just…..if there’s one thing that shouldn’t be done alone, it’s definitely eating. They just look so vulnerable. So, sad. I’m not ashamed to say I’ve cried a few times watching an old man eat alone. Think about it. It’s just them and a plate full of food. Nobody to talk to, except for their waiter. I don’t know, I guess I’m weird.”

The waitress shows the bottle to Morgan and after her approval, the waitress fills her glass. “Thanks,” Morgan says to Elana, our waitress. To me, she says, “Um…so what do you do for a living?”

I consider her mundane question for a moment. Then, finally, I say, “I’m a writer.”

She perks up ever so slightly. “Oh, yeah? What do you write?”

Goddamn, I hate this question. I always want to say “Words.” Instead, I say, “Fiction.” I’m sure I could guess her follow-up question.

“Anything I might have heard of?”

I gaze around the restaurant, bobbing my head around in search of a lone diner. There’s none. I pick up my half-empty glass of wine.

“Probably not,” I whisper into my glass.