I love sharing food. It’s been a thing with me since at least Vanessa, though maybe before. One of our only real joys of the relationship was going out to a nice restaurant, enjoying some fancy cocktails, ordering something interesting or mind-blowing and sharing it with each other. It became a little competition between us to see who was the superior orderer, who would blow the other one away.
Scratch that. I’m romanticizing. Sure, we frequently went out to dinner but only because we couldn’t stand to spend time alone together. We sucked down the fancy cocktails to ignite the warm buzz waiting in our bellies and blur the edges of the dull ache we felt once the love had drained away. We focused our attention on the menu like it was a great work of literature, like its amuses and foie gras and crispy salmon skins contained the meaning of life itself. Mostly we did it so we could avoid talking to each other. The competition part was correct though. We fed on the triumph of superior ordering even more than the food itself, the glee of winning charging the evening with a richer feeling than any flourless torte could provide.
If you’d asked us then we would have said we were still in love. In love with what though, has always been my question. In love with being together, maybe. In love with not being alone. In love with not having to face the terrifying unknown future with nothing but an empty space.
Prompt: Sharing something