It’s a cool Saturday evening in Portland, Maine. I walk alone, meandering the quiet, cobblestoned street and peeking into the crowded restaurants at the start of the dinner rush. I enjoy being invisible. I watch the embrace of old friends, the spark of energy between closely entwined couples, and the crazed stare of a flustered yet still smiling hostess.
As I move past the bustle, I come upon a warm and inviting restaurant tucked in tight above a bakery. I can still taste the memory of the morning’s croissants. The open-air kitchen and the promise of fresh bread from below draw me in.
“Excuse me, I’m dining alone tonight. Would you happen to have any open seats?”
A bit of shuffling later and I find myself snuggly squeezed between locals on a double date and fellow weary travelers. I keep my phone shut away in my bag and let my thoughts run free. I’m brainstorming, scheming, remembering, and eying the cobbler on my neighbor's dessert menu.
As I smile at the waiter one last time while I sign my check, I feel a touch on my arm.
“I may only be saying this because I’ve had a martini, but I just want to commend you for eating dinner alone. I just started doing it myself and I’m twice your age —isn’t it incredible?”
I thank her and wish her a good meal as I exit the warm embrace of the restaurant.
I catch my reflection in the glass and see the new person I never realized was standing…
