Sunday, 17 November 2019

Chinese night

The kitchen clatter. The cackle of Asian voices. What Marco Polo discovered (or did he introduce them?) is being shared. The waiter knows me from previous visits. “Good morning” he says; it is evening. I point to my items on the menu, recognising the pictures. Ramen and fried rice (is it ever ‘ordinary’). The food arrives and I remind myself not to rush. I am alone this evening with nothing to do:

with every mouthful
a long story
this noodle bar

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early evening in the Friend's graveyard short shadows