Dreary, rainy, cold. Mid-afternoon and I head as I do too often for my neighborhood Chinese restaurant. I sit in the car for a bit, watching people enter and leave, listening to the wind roar, aware of my solitude.
The first time I ate here, my mom was with me. My brother and I ate here the day of her funeral.
I've brought friends here, and unexpectedly run into friends here. Mostly, I eat by myself, alone in a corner with that day's New York Times, the same food, the same drink, the same tip.
I've had dinner here with almost every woman I've known in the last five years, the casual dates and the long-term relationships. None of these ever worked out.
When Tabbatha and I planned on moving in together, it would have been someplace else, a different neighborhood, another part of town. That didn't happen, of course. I still miss her, still wonder what happened, and know that I should move on, get out of this place, this rut, this part of my life.
Yet I'm still here. The sky is gray and the wind is bitter. The whole day feels numb, and so do I.
