It’s just after noon in a small Thai joint somewhere in the east 30’s on the corner of Madison.
I enter the establishment wearing a t-shirt with a typewriter on it appropriately labeled “writer” in courier print; a tipped Kangol hat; and a pair of men’s carpenter pants, cut to fall halfway down my muscular calves. It’s hot outside.
The “shorts” once belonged to my second husband, and someone before that because they were second-hand like everything else about him. The t-shirt was a birthday present from the first. Divorce is impossible, I’ve learned. It never goes away.
The restaurant is empty and both of the gorgeous Thai serves, one male, one female – both 20 something – are over the moon to see me.
“Yes, yes!” they say smiling and speaking at the same time.
“Which table? Any table you like.”
I take off my hat and grab a bench seat toward the front where natural light is still flooding in, prior to when the sun tips too far west and afternoon shadows cast. But before I actually land in the seat I say, “Thai beer?”
I order my second Singha before the appetizer arrives. A party of six enters and sits one table down from me.
They nestle together, exchange awkward greetings and start talking about Reiki. They’re sharing stories about what they learned in class. One of the girls says, “That’s what I mean – so you have my back, right?” And some guy returns with, “Yeah, that whole thing was so bi-polar.”
The concept of “having ones back” and term “bi-polar” in a conversation about a supposed healing therapy makes me throw up in my mouth. Not that Reiki has ever been my thing, don’t get it twisted.
When the cute waiter with blue rubber band braces brings my spring rolls, I order another Singha.
I decide not to eavesdrop on the Reiki posse and understand they’re probably just reformed alcoholics looking for something to do since they can’t brunch Sunday in the city anymore.
I open my notebook and start writing.