I shoveled another bite into my mouth, trying with all the grace of a hungry hippo to not dribble down my chin, unsuccessfully of course. I giggle at myself as I try to wipe away the remains of my gluttony. It was another night of solo dining at fancy restaurants. I figured if I didn’t have a date to treat me to a nice supper, then my own company would be sufficient. Besides, I could never say no to a gourmet meal. Heck any meal really. If love languages are real, then mine would be fancy food, fancy places, decadent desserts, over-indulging my high-class taste with my working-class pocketbook. What can I say? A girl’s gotta have some sort of hobby, right? Mine is enjoying the finer things in life, even if it is for just a meal one night out of the month.

So there I was, thoroughly enjoying myself, with my appetizer, mocktail, and main dish all presented in front of me, and my e-book reader positioned strategically to the left so I could eat my heart’s desire and indulge in a good read. It’s the little things in life right? As I sopped up the last of the delicious gravy with my last homemade roll, and very un-lady-like shoved it in my mouth I heard my name from somewhere behind.

“A, is that you? I thought that was you” 

I am now mid-bite, gravy streaming down my wrist with half a roll crushed inside my gaping mouth. If that is not the picture of elegance, I’m not sure what is.

“Oh my goodness, it’s you, what are you doing here?” I muster out through rapid swallows and frantic napkin wiping. I am suddenly very aware that I must look like I’ve been practicing for one of those eating contests you always see at county fairs. I rise to meet this stranger who I can’t quite place yet because he’s got me all flustered as I was enjoying my meal. I send a secret prayer to God that when he hugs me, because he’s leaning in for a hug as I’m rising to meet him, that I don’t have gravy all over my face and that he doesn’t squeeze me in to him, thus removing the gravy from my face onto his clean shirt. He does squeeze me. Why do they always do that? I don’t think they mean to, I’m just rather short so it throws them a bit off balance, thus the squeeze. 

He releases me and I have a chance to look him in the eyes and recognition finally takes place. “Dylan! Wow. Hi. Um Hi. How are you? Why are you here?” Wow, did I just say that? That was kinda rude. I haven’t seen this boy since maybe middle school, or even elementary. Small towns are weird that way. You always remember the kids from your class, or your church. There’s just not enough of us to make us invisible. This boy, well I guess man now- how did we all get so old so fast-was from my church. It’s been ages since I’ve thought about those days. We had a great group of kids back in our kids’ church days. I remember it fondly because I was always the star of the Christmas play and it always went to my head. 🙂 

He releases me from our weird step-back-in-time hug, and my face mustn’t be covered in gravy, because he doesn’t hand me a napkin or turns away with a rapid, “good to see ya, goodbye”. No, instead he sits down at my table, makes himself comfortable, and starts a conversation like we’re old pals. 

He asks me what I’ve been up to, I ask about his family and life now. It’s that familiar dance of get-to-know-you-again tango we all play with friends from the past. It is very good to see him. Nostalgia is such a funny feeling. It takes effort to remember yourself back in your childhood days. And Dylan is younger, so he makes me feel even older remembering our church activities together. I fiddle with my fork trying to pay attention to him while my mind keeps replaying images from the past. He flashes me a crooked grin and suddenly he’s 8 years old again sitting next to my sister in the church pew, getting ready to come up to the stage for his part in the Christmas production. It’s adorable and I laugh out loud. Oops, I chide myself, but he must have said something that was supposed to be funny because he doesn’t break in his conversation. Phew, I think to myself.

We talk for a good twenty minutes and then his friends come over to beckon him away. It is a Friday night after all, there are more friends to see, more drinks to be had, more memories to make. “It was great to see you,” we both share as he gets up to leave. I stare after him as he walks away again caught up in memories from the past. I probably won’t see him for another ten years and yet he was such a vivid reminder of my childhood, memories that I hadn’t thought about in so long. Happy memories. 

I stare back at my once hot delicious plate of food, now lukewarm and a bit soggy if I’m honest. Oh well. It was expensive so I shovel every last bite into my mouth and sag into my chair satisfied with a full belly and a happy heart.