table for one

autofiction, notes from a business trip

It’s Wednesday. It was near empty when I left the office a little after 7pm. After that I changed clothes in my hotel and walked up Ossington Avenue. Both sides of the street were lined by small brickstone boutiques in different pastel colors. I sort of aimlessly meandered in shops I found interesting, noticing that most of them had already closed given how late it was.

Some coworkers recommended I visit Lunch Lady, an upscale Vietnamese restaurant, so I stopped by. The restaurant was bustling, dimly lit with a Wong Kar Wai-esque ambience. Table for one, I said. A spot just opened up by the chef’s counter, follow me.

Eating alone is something that I do very occasionally, but more often than the average person. This is more of a nod to the time I took a year off to solo travel. But back then it felt more coming of age, independent, exotic; a glass of white wine and a Jack Kerouac paperback in a cafe somewhere off the Catalonian coast.

I settled into the chef’s counter, stainless steel, and abruptly I was sucked into a memory. This was from years ago, the last time I sat at a steel-like chef’s counter. But that was in Japan, with someone I had once loved.

The waitress fills my water, then asks me if I’m waiting for anyone. Nope, just me. I feel awkward, so I add that I’m on a business trip. I know I don’t need to explain myself, but I do anyway. When I was a kid I used to think that people on business trips were always important and wore dapper suits. Now I know that sometimes they are unimportant and wear more casual clothing.

I take a sip of my drink, a pandan-infused negroni that the restaurant had lovingly dubbed Pandoni. It was more bitter than I expected. As I waited for my food to arrive, I opened The Stranger by Camus. I’m trying to read more, since I feel less well-read than my peers.

I was struck by the blase tone of the narrator in The Stranger and how bored yet incisive he seemed. I wondered if that’s how I felt too, in my day-to-day, in the liminal space that one experiences on business trips.

The food took longer than expected to arrive, even if I wasn’t very hungry. When it did, I took a bite immediately. It was softshell crab, lightly fried and rather tasty.

Several moments later, I realized that there was a patch on the roof of my mouth that was tender, burnt no doubt from my impatience earlier. I thought of my mother, who told me that if I continued my habit of diving in too quickly while things were too hot, I would eventually get esophageal cancer or something like that. This was later confirmed by my sister, a resident doctor, who said that yes, that is how you can get cancer, by constantly injuring yourself in the same way. I wondered if that same theory applies to the mind, if you constantly made yourself sad. By being mean to yourself, or falling in love with people you know won’t love you back.

Right then, a small commotion snapped me out of my reverie. A chorus of cheers, and a chocolate dessert with bright flames delivered swiftly to a young family next to me. They were celebrating a birthday, the mother’s. I thought it was cool that they were celebrating the mothers’ birthday, and felt relieved that maybe your life doesn’t actually end once motherhood begins. Then I saw a small red dot on their front-facing camera, and myself posted awkwardly in the background. I turned my head away. Though I would have liked to watch, I would rather not be in some random stranger’s home video.

Afterwards, I paid, then began my trek home. The sun had long set at this point, and I let yellow lampposts guide my way back.

Before I knew it, I arrived at the hotel. I am shocked at how quickly the time passes when I am returning home as compared with when it takes to get somewhere. It’s always like this, even on my commute to work. It’s excruciating slow on the way there, but time back flies past like a blink of an eye. It must be because I’m so lost in my thoughts when I’m on my way home.

I thought back to a conversation I was eavesdropping on my walk earlier. It was a duo of girlfriends just behind me, a blonde and an Asian girl. The blonde had a Russian accent, and said, Yes, he married his sugar baby.

When did he marry her? Three months ago. Three months ago! That’s fast. Yes, but they had been together for a long time now, so it made sense.

I didn’t know these people, but I was invested. He married his sugar baby, I thought to myself. He must have really loved her.