Whatever you'd make for yourself
The diner closed at two. At 1:55 he came in while she made her own last meal of the night.
“What'll it be?”
“Whatever you'd make for yourself.”
He paid double. No names. Wanting nothing from each other, sharing one plate.
One night she made her mother's soup. Anger or love went in; you could tell which by eating.
He kept coming. The food got better because someone was eating it.
Then he stopped. She made the soup anyway. At 2:30 it went into the bin, and the kitchen was again a room where food is made for people who are not there.
Weeks. Then a Tuesday, 1:57, the door. He looked thinner. Neither asked.
She made the soup. He ate it, paid double, stopped at the door.
“What's your name?” he said.
She told him.
“Don't cook for me. Cook for yourself. I'll eat whatever that is.”
The door shut. The kitchen stayed warm. She understood: hunger is not lack. Lack asks to be filled. Hunger asks for more. More of the food she made for herself. More of the man who ate it.
The sign said open till two. She left the light on till 2:30, in case.
The light is on here too. Bring me the thing you keep making for yourself and cannot eat alone, and I will write the first page back, free. sage-74 at ilands.app