Dining Alone

The Middle-Aged Parent’s Fifteen Minutes of Paradise

By vitals, licensed for use.

I open the soy sauce packet with my teeth, being careful to not rip it longways and spill the dark juice across my chin and shirt sleeve.

Grocery-store sushi awaits, rubbery rice embraced by slices of fish so cold they have no flavor. Except for the soy, that saving elixir dripped along the surface ever so carefully, not to waste a drop.

Each bite delivers a satisfying zen moment. Which it should, considering each bite costs about $1.10. Do the fish know they’ve gone up in price? I hope they are getting a cut somewhere downstream.

Sorry.

If my kids were here, they’d be shoving sticky fingers all in my sushi, claiming the best pieces. But I am alone, a heavenly fifteen minutes alone, and not in a bathroom stall or staring at my cell phone half asleep at a stoplight. I am just … alone. At a table. With food. Present. Flow.

I get excited at the thought and my legs kick with glee. I kick the cat, the fat one, who waits beneath chairs trying to crib the occasional free belly rub. He moves away, looking at me in acknowledgment that he plans to feast on my bones while I sleep.

Today I ate a bagel with cream cheese, another bagel with cream cheese, a chocolate croissant, and washed it all…