I haven’t told my husband yet,
but I am in love with another man. It
has been a couple of years now that I have found myself repeatedly returning to
him for servings of the joy he brings me. I supposed I
should feel guilty, as he is about the same age as my sons, but instead I feel
only pure affection. To be clear, my
love for him is strictly platonic and we rarely see each other for more than a
few minutes at a time, but without fail, each time
I walk away with a smile on my face that lasts all day.
Not long ago, a noodle
shop opened down the street from my office.
For most of my colleagues, the novelty of a new lunch spot wore off
within a few weeks, but for me the significance
of this commercial expansion was far more important. The truth is...
I have a deeply entrenched noodle
addiction.
I know Cosmopolitan magazine and
Bridget Jones have the world convinced that eating ice cream out of the tub is
every woman’s go-to “feel-better” activity, but in times of stress, sadness,
anxiety, loneliness, shame, boredom, credit card overdraft, bad hair days etc.
for me there is no quicker fix than a steaming takeout box of rice noodles
slurped through disposable chopsticks so cheap that avoiding a splinter becomes
the entertainment part of “dinner and a show”.
I don’t even really know why, but the simplicity of that perfect blend of
steamy, sweet and spicy always brings me comfort.
Noodle boy’s sunny disposition
confused me the first time we met. He looked up and met my eyes as I walked up
to the cash. He smiled warmly, his focus never wavering.
“Hi. What can I get you today, Ma’am?”
Scanning the endless
possibilities on the massive billboard, I wondered how I would ever
decide. Choose your protein, choose your
sauce, choose your garnish. Is it just
me, or has takeout become exponentially complicated? All I wanted were some hot sticky
noodles.
My
breath got shallow and I started to feel anxious. I heard the smartly dressed business man
behind me breathing down the back of my neck.
He shuffled his Italian leather shoes impatiently at my indecision. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him
masturbating the screen of his smart phone absentmindedly with his thumb, like
he might an old girlfriend he was growing tired of.
Noodle boy was unperturbed. He
flashed me another smile. “Ma’am? Have
you made your choice?” He whispered gently.
“Umm….a veggie pad
thai please.
“Spicy?” His eyes twinkled, windows to his warm, calm
heart.
Mr. Italian leather cleared his
throat behind me. His General Tao Special
seemed sure to be the only thing standing between him and solving the Middle
Eastern crisis.
“Maybe just a little.”
And so go our interactions. There is little variation. On occasion I’ll feel adventurous and try
something else on the menu, maybe even ask a couple questions but mostly, our
meetings are, on the surface, completely insignificant- money exchanged, few
words spoken. He doesn’t even
know my name but somehow, our brief encounters stay with me.
There used to be an intimate apparel store
in our local mall called Moments Intimes. I laughed when a friend once misunderstood
the chic French title and referred to it as Moments
in Time. But maybe she was right,
that really, there is nothing more intimate than those little moments in time
when we are truly present, whether with a lover or a complete stranger at our
favorite takeout joint. With so much talk about BFFs and soul mates, maybe we underestimate
those little connections we make when we just look up to truly see the person in front of
us.
Today once again I found myself
craving noodles and so decided to run into the grocery store on my way home.
Ten minutes later I get in line
to pay. I sigh as I see that the young woman
working the cash seems to have time-warped into an alternate universe of slow
motion. She struggles to identify the most basic of fruits and vegetables and after
finally scanning each item, pauses to categorize its dimensions before carefully
bagging it with bomb squad precision so as not to bruise or crush any fruit or
baked good. The line continues to grow
behind me both in length and impatience.
I find myself feeling grumpier by
the second so I pull out my phone to pass the time. Facebook, the cyber-crack of checkout
lines. I swipe away, images spinning
faster and faster in my palm. Pictures
of pizza muffins and the amazing healing properties of kale, interspersed with
status updates of “7 easy steps to spiritual enlightenment,” and “Look
what I just ate for lunch!” (Aside: has anyone else noticed that since the
advent of Facebook, elephants have become increasingly artistically inclined?)
My thumb scrolls faster and faster. The information overload only increases my
angst.
Finally it’s my turn. I am obsessively replaying a “pig nursing
orphan kittens” video in disbelief.
And then I look up at the cashier.
She can’t be twenty, this young woman with the fabulous afro and intricately
air-brushed nails. I meet her eyes. They
are the deepest of dark browns. She gives me a pained smile and I can’t help
but smile back. We look at each other
for a moment, I at her beauty and she, I fear, to see if I am about to give her
a hard time. No way. I drop my phone in
my pocket and reach out to grab the package of vermicelli she has just passed
over the scanner.
“Here, why don’t you pass them to
me and I’ll bag,” I suggest. She nods and her smile softens.
Yup, I think I’m in love again.
I toss the snow peas and mushrooms
into the bag. They will be perfect in
tonight’s stir-fry. A dish that’s just the right blend of steamy, sweet, spicy
comfort.
A dish I won’t be posting on Facebook.
*Some details have been altered to protect the privacy of those involved but remain true to the essence of the events.