I’m eating a crepe in a coffee shop, and you’re texting me from a toilet because the bathroom is the quietest and most private place on set (or in a kitchen). I’m wondering if anyone thinks you’ve got stomach problems if you’ve been slipping away to the toilet to text me in spurts, and I’m also thinking I’m a pretty graceless eater, the way I stuff my face with forkfuls of food because I want everything in one mouthful — I want a little bit of crepe, a little bit of bacon, of eggs and arugula and salsa and hot sauce, but I can never seem to manage all of it into one graceful small bite.
I think about how you tidily and methodically you ate my egg tarts the other night, and, then, I think maybe we shouldn’t eat anything when we get those drinks … if we ever do get those drinks.
It’s been three days since “the other night,” and we’ve been texting. You’re busy with work (you’re here for work after all), and I’ve got deadlines and conference calls and meetings (oh, that freelance life!), and we’ve been saying, maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow, I’m sorry, maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow? Your flight leaves in two days, though, and I’m thinking this will be one of those things that just doesn’t happen in the end — it was nice to think about, though, and it was fun texting, even if you do that shorthand thing, “u” for “you,” “ur for “your.”
There’s next time, though, I suppose; there’s always next time. We both travel a lot for work, so maybe we can make our paths cross. Maybe you’ll plan personal days into your next work trip out here. Maybe this, maybe that, maybe, maybe, maybe.
Maybe I’ll learn to be a more graceful eater by then.