There’s a time when you realize you haven’t done anything for a while. You haven’t written, you haven’t felt like you’ve been experiencing life, you feel like you can’t start up again.
I had started this year with good intentions. Get new media options up. Video. Audio. And for the first day of this year, I did great.
Then I had food poisoning and it all sort of went out of whack from there.
But now, five months later, I’m going to tell you a story.
It may be a real story, it may not be.
The important thing is that I tell it. It starts like this:
Dinner after work is always a conundrum. Do I go home and save money? Or do I go out and bring home leftovers that languish in the fridge? Or rather, food that languishes until my food poisoning paranoia sets in and I throw them out.
Today, I decide to have Japanese since we had a barbecue at work.
A bowl of miso and a tamago roll and some green tea and then a pleasant walk home. Not a bad plan.
Today Trung welcomes me and I sit at the sushi bar at the back, at my usual spot. Peter says hello and sells me a typhoon roll, their special tonight. I order a green tea and head to the restroom to wash my hands.
When I return, there’s a family of four seated next to me at the sushi bar.
One boy, younger. One teenage girl. One blond housewife. And one dour looking man, his face blood red hot, his palms pressed against his temples as if they were the only things keeping his head from exploding.
His words feel chosen, deliberate. “I just want you to answer the question.” Continue reading