"Would you get something to eat with me?" You say-- with eyes so sad.
"Yes, I will get something to eat with you." I reply-- with eyes so sad.
(more) We knew we needed to eat and we weren't yet ready to part. I felt so scared to eat with you. Terrified to feel the comfort of a meal in your company or the discomfort of what a simple meal has become.
We decide to share some things. We always shared some-things. I reminded you that you don't like the spring rolls with the rice paper--you're always disappointed they are not the fried ones. This makes us aware of life, and time, and: each other. Our eyes well up with tears.
We try to change the subject. I clench my fork through resentments. I shake and shiver through hurt, and loss, and we are both: so sad.
I try to eat. I want to eat, but I feel like I'm going to throw up. It's all so much. I chew spoonfuls of rice, but the grain doesn't change shape. I just try to swallow it. My food is cold. The restaurant is cold--or is it just me?
We finish and don't know what to do. We don't want to leave, but we don't want to stay either. We don't know where we want to go. We don't know what we want to do next.
But it's time to go, so we get up. You pay the bill. We walk out the door, and it's strangely warmer outside.