Lunchtime
Eating lunch alone has become familiar before I knew it. But today the kimchi stew is a little sour. She looks at the sunlight pouring through the restaurant's window and picks up her spoon. From the kitchen, the sound of broth boiling mixes with old pop songs into a quiet murmur. Two office workers at the next table say "so then that team leader..." and laugh. She lowers her head and blows on the broth. Hot steam fogs her glasses and clears. Coming alone and eating alone is certainly familiar, yet somehow today the stew tastes a little more sour. "Here's your kimchi stew." The side dishes are set out first. In her phone's notepad she writes, "tomorrow add rolled omelet." For no reason at all, perhaps because a familiar tomorrow had come into being, she found herself looking forward a little to the drowsy afternoon.
At lunchtime my face was reflected in the window of a noodle shop I passed, and I felt as if someone might be sitting beside it. No one was, of course. By the time I'd finished eating and stepped out, the smell felt a little different, maybe because the broth had gone cold.
Seeing that spot reflected in the glass, I remembered where I sat yesterday too. I left the leash there without knowing it and wandered a long while after I'd gone out.