PLASTIC FORKS

 

The end of a rainy day of tasks. A grabbed meal from the market buffet. We sat at the eating shelf looking out at the parking lot. Our recycled boxes of food and plastic forks in hand. Maybe it was the rain, the colors, the cars passing and swaths of people blurred by the evening lights. It sent my thoughts back to other places we had been, Seattle, Paris, Vancouver. Places were it rained and the meals we shared. Were tables were elegant and forks silver.

Elegant was not here. The chairs too short to be comfortable, maybe a Bezos thing, I don’t know. It was his store. A gruff short Russian sat four chairs away speaking Russian, sometimes slapping a hand on the eating shelve. His deals still happening. To the right a group of market employees sitting at a table. Contemplating their future I guessed, but not speaking of it.

My thoughts returned to memories of the past, to maybe repeating those grand times.

I wondered if she thought the same, but here we were. A common market, a plastic fork and rain. We looked at each other, taking all that was around us in. We still loved life and each other. All that really mattered.