a four letter outburst

Just my romance.

I watched as he slowly scooped his peas and carrots off the top of his gravy soaked bread. Old Murray ate slowly, without this need to rush; he stopped now and again to sip black coffee. We sat facing each other at different booths. We had the same meal. I looked out the window, watched transport trucks go north and south and I thought of families’ waiting and tired eyes. I am a cook these days but I never seem to cook at home. In fact I tried it last night and in the middle of cooking got doing other things. When I returned to the stove I had burned supper. So I went to Vi’s, sat at the booth with the window.  I ate slowly like Murray, thought of a previous lover who sat across from me in the very same booth. We held hands, watching the trucks go by. My brother and I sit there sometimes on Sunday mornings now, have breakfast and get close again. It is nice.
For now, I eat slow and alone.