I had a terrible time. It was loud and there were too many voices and everyone sounded too alive. I kept staring at a woman at the table behind you. Her hair was cut short, bangs in a straight line against her forward. She talked with her hands, and when she laughed, she leaned back, so far back. I hated her because everyone at her table looked like they were listening. But where we were, it was impossible to hear.
The truth is, I don't need the food. I don't need the restaurants and the dim lighting and the walls that are hung with art that was lifted from someone else's dream.
If I could, I would let myself starve. Maybe then I would small enough to fit into the space between your palms.
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