self pity

A year ago, a late night like this would be pretty standard. S would have been there too. We would have eaten too much Indian takeout vindaloo. She would swing by at some hour of the night, announcing quitting-time: "Okay Poops, let's get out of here." And that was a real comfort to have at least one person care that I shouldn't squander any more time at that place. She would have watched as I wrap up, "Five minutes" turning into fifteen, shuffling papers, sending last minute emails. And then we would have said goodbye to Sam downstairs and walked the long way home.

Now, without anyone to insist on takeout curry, all I had to eat the entire day was a piece of chocolate and four cups of coffee. And I had stayed beyond the hours of respectability, now compelled to compensate for my hungry and lonely state by taking a detour at a 2.a.m. dining spot before going home. The kitchen was near closing time. I told the waitress about my day, that I was hungry, that I would appreciate if she could bring me something good to eat and drink. It was pathetic how hungry I was for actual conversation, and she might have felt pity for me.

I took a large gulp of the bitter. She brought Devils on Horseback which I ate too fast, burning my tongue on the hot fruit. It was only halfway through the Halibut that I started to feel like myself again. The waitress asked if I wanted dessert, and out of kindness probably would have kept some of the tired kitchen staff past close. I said no. It was late and time to go home.