Wasting Water

Source: www.data360.org

Source: www.data360.org

Today I am eating breakfast alone:  reconstituted eggs and soggy bacon from the hotel buffet, to the hum of euphoric pop music.  Epic sounding epiphanies about someone being the one.  For a moment I vaguely miss the brief period of time I spent dating my husband.

We used to sit at a local café, high brow books and dark roast coffee spread on the table between us.  We read in relative silence; occasionally he would reach for my leg under the table, gently resting his hand there.

A tall man in an ugly burgundy uniform brings me coffee and a glass of water.  I thank him and pick up my fork.  The white porcelain plate in front of me is huge,  I notice for the first time.  I have inadvertently piled on more food than I can eat, in proportion with its cavernous size.  Oops.

Thirsty, I quickly drain my water.  The burgundy man is back before my glass touches the table.  He pours me more.

“Thanks,” I say again.  He nods at me blankly.

I think Italy marked the end for us.  We had only been dating a couple of months when we went.  We signed a lease on a small two bedroom apartment, and then hopped on a plane.  The plan was to move in together when we returned, along with his then two year old son.

At the time, I had imagined our trip would be all hand holding and light hearted sex, surrounded by art.  I was wrong.  Instead it was awkward, the weight of our sudden commitment to one another heavy on our minds.  In my opinion, we never fully recovered from the trauma.

I pick unenthusiastically at my lukewarm eggs, sip my weak coffee, and drink some more water.  ( The bacon is extra salty.)  Again, the burgundy man tops off my glass.

More than a full serving of food sits on my plate, but I’m done.  I sign for my meal, and slide out of my seat, taking one last sip from my completely full glass of water.

“My husband cooks the best bacon,” I think to myself as I head off to work.   And for a moment I vaguely miss him.

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