I saw a man eating alone in one of those hard plastic booths.
He opened the paper wrapping for his burrito and carefully smoothed it into a perfect square. The whole scene broke my heart. He squeezed a small dollop of sauce in one corner from an orange foil packet and before every bite of his burrito he dipped the open end into the sauce. He ate slowly.
I had to keep him company. When I entered the restaurant, the air was thick with the stink of cheap meat and steam and hand sanitizer. Sweat was on my neck, and down my back, and even between my thighs. I slid into the empty bench across from the man eating alone. He looked how you might expect, a messy, graying beard, his head covered by a wool skullcap. His T-shirt was dirty and his jeans were torn. He was handsome. He looked up. I introduced myself because my mother once said every conversation with a stranger should begin with your name. He stared at me, then wiped his mouth with his hand and stretched his arm across the table. The palm of his hand was callused and his knuckles were red with arthritis. He held my hand. He talked with his mouth full, introduced himself. His name had a lot of vowels, sounded made up. I asked him if he’d like to come to my house for a proper meal. He shrugged. We walked the three miles back to my place. Sometimes cars honked at us. He walked on the outside, had real nice manners in his own way.
We sat at my small kitchen table, didn’t talk much, but we ate homemade leftovers and drank red wine. Later we retired to the living room and drank more wine and still didn’t talk much. I held his hands in mine, held them for as long as he let me. He nodded toward my bathroom, asked if he could shower. I showed him where clean towels were, soap. He didn’t take long and when he was done, he stood in my hallway. I quickly finished my wine and went to him. I lay on my back and let him cover me. He said, “Thank you,” and smiled and left.
When I started grade school, my mother walked me on the first day. We stood, together, at the bottom of the large brick staircase leading into the school. She held my hand. She said, “Let me have a look at you,” then licked her thumb and used it to tame my eyebrows. She straightened the hem of my jumper. She told me to stand still. I smelled her perfume and hoped the smell of her would stay with me all day. She said, “You make friends with the ugliest kids in your class and you make friends with the loneliest kids in your class, the ones off by themselves. They will be the best friends you’ve ever had and they’ll make you feel better about yourself.” With a pat on the head, she pushed me.