I spend a lot of time these days answering questions about you. Everyone wants to know about you, who you are, what you do, how we met, and I feel almost like I’ve got some kind of pitch down — you’re a chef; no, you don’t have your own restaurant yet; yes, we’re long distance; yeah, it’s hard; and we met at a mutual friend’s boring party. I have that designated photo I pull up when people inevitably ask if I have one because they want to know what you look like, and, yes, I still get smug and happy when they say, Awww, you two are such a cute couple.
It’s a cool, sunny Saturday in San Francisco, and my friend and I sit outdoors because I’ve brought my puppy with me. This morning, you and I Facetimed, and all our Facetime sessions now start with you asking about my puppy, if he slept well, how he’s doing, when you’ll be able to meet him because you love dogs and he’s so adorable and you want to play with him. I tell you he’s horribly needy and has terrible separation anxiety, and I still don’t know how he stayed with my parents for a few weeks while I was settling into my new apartment, into new freelance projects. You say you don’t know how I apparently did without him, given that I seem to have terrible separation anxiety. You still think it’s funny that my way of dealing with missing him was just not to mention him at all.
But, anyway, I’m getting lunch with a friend, and it’s a cool, sunny day. I get a bacon tomato scramble with a side of potatoes and sourdough toast, and they bring me two giant servings of preserves, more than I can eat, even though I generously slather my toast with it. I hate wasting it, hate leaving it because I’m sure it’ll be thrown away, and I feel guilty about leaving so many potatoes, too, except I kind of dislike breakfast potatoes, much, much prefer hash browns instead.
You and your fucking hash browns, you said one morning when we went to get breakfast at my favorite diner.
Says you as you steal my hash browns! I said, watching, mock-horrified, as you shoveled your fork through my hash browns.
I don’t know if these are hash browns or ketchup, though, you said, eating your forkful and returning for another load.
Uhm, excuse you, can you not complain about my food while you’re eating it?
I think you’d happily and easily clear up this mound of potatoes if you were here. My friend helps me eat some of my potatoes, but we end up leaving a pile in the end anyway. I think it can’t be helped; breakfast potatoes are just so blah. I’m still sorry to leave a full second serving of preserves, though.