The couple next to me don't know what ravioli is. Can you believe it. Can you. I can't.
A little girl behind is corrected, made to say "yes ma'am" and my heart is filled to bursting.
And I commiserate with a server over a slice of cheesecake and English tourists, not because she knows anything about me and not because I know any of her but because I am wearing black pants, a white shirt and black clogs. She knows because she smiles and winks. Do we all know? And does she know that even though I wear the uniform I also get a good wage, health benefits and vacation time after 3 months? Well. I don't tell her.
Dinner on this very specific night brings back other dinners: feta and figs with lamb, mussels and mess, loads of chimichurri, apple tart with tequila, beef stew Thanksgiving, ravioli and vegetable stacks, brandade, instant ramen enriched, mac and cheese and ham and peas, chicken and dumplings, tortilla. Sexy breakfasts and even some desserts. Meals made significant because of first times, of many times, but not because of last times. Meals shared finally, oh what we've been missing.
I am young and very stupid and I am very stupid and I am very stupid. But I know. These meals cannot be important enough, they are of the utmost. I'm alive because of them. Maybe too alive, maybe too quick to cry, but I'm alive alive alive alive.
I think it's important to point that out.
My server asks how I'm enjoying my food. "It's good, it's what I need," I say.
She winks.
