Impressions of a True Food at dinnertime 

Throughout the week, I write down moments out of the day about fascinating details of the environment and the people around me. I’ll be posting them here every Monday.

A tattoo on the girl’s wrist.

A young black girl wears an oversized Mickey Mouse sweater with her hair up in a ponytail as she stares at her watercress salad, fork at the ready.

Shifting, scooping, stabbing, another woman moves her food around in her bowl.

A bus boy walks past tables, glancing indifferently at the tops of them.

The part in the young girl’s mouth as she glances at me twice. Her eyes show no interest or disgust, her face stamping perfectly the flavorless expressions of an adult spectator. Her grey, folded flannel looks worn: it’s two days old only.

The bartender shows his hands palms up like a casino dealer as he asks his two customers if they need any assistance. They don’t need any at the moment, thank you.

The manager on duty, dressed half his age, carries two black wooden highchairs to a party of six.

Food delivery men walk up and out, up and out, all night long, wearing heavy coats but baseball caps, always watching their phones.

The ring on her finger is skinny and gold. No gem.

Dear Diary, I ended up going to Walgreens to buy a notebook and five colored pens—black, blue, pink, green, and purple. Now I’m sipping my wine at True Food listening to Meshell Ndegeocello, Bonnie Raitt, Natalie Merchant, Alanis Morissette, Lisa Loeb, Sarah McLaughlin, and Amanda Marshall (I was a 90s teen). I scribbled a picture of the Picasso at the Daley Center in five different colors.

The smell of celery. Vegetation at a bar? She is juicing cut things of orange, brown, gold, and red colors into a pulpy mixture.

The looks I get sometimes from imaginary women at imaginary times that I deem right there and right then. A smile is a smile, whether it’s meant for you or for someone else.

Wine glasses with their mouths open awaiting mama bird to feed them again.

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