Dinner

The refrigerator holds dribs and drabs, none of which appeal to me.  I’ve been lying down for hours, typing texts, posts, and e-mails with the tips of my fingers.  The war rages within me.  The strongest anti-viral known to humankind seems to be whipping the world’s stupidest virus into shape at the expense of my immediate comfort.  But I don’t care.  If the outcome yielded can be measured in days of quality life, I’m holding on and letting the rampage take me where it will.

Last Saturday, my friend Brenda and I dined at Cafe Gratitude.  It’s impossible to be gloomy there.  The waitstaff assails you with cheerfulness.  They seem genuinely pleased that you crossed their threshold.  They describe the specials with lilting, awe-tinged voices.  I took my leftovers home in one of their boxes just for the pleasure of having a bit of that joy in my kitchen.  I could use a dose of their fare now.

The dog snuffles at my door and I realize she probably needs to go out.  I’m sitting in my antique rocker, the one I talked the auctioneer into selling me for ten bucks because it’s got broken webbing in the seat.  I’ve got my little feet on my great-grandmother Corinne’s footstool, and silence surrounds me.  I hear nothing save the perennial ringing in my ears.  It’s a symphony for one.

But I’m hungry; and I’ll bet my dog is, too.  So I’m going down for dinner.  Let the war go on with out me for a few minutes; I’ll turn my head to something more pleasant, like the evening news or this week’s Tiny Desk concert.  There must be a hundred things that I could do besides wait for the battle to end.

Take-out box from Cafe Gratitude.

Take-out box from Cafe Gratitude.

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