Today, I try something new, quilted. A downy old time celebration like the pony wall painted at Tavern on the Green.
I order a lunch set from the 13th floor’s coral banquettes. I listen for peppered dressing, the floret of broccoli to fan. Wicker arm chairs glide across a shiny oak floor and the Maitre D clicks his smile, sees every wave of comfort and each flicker of need.
My baby car sits parked at the opening. I swirl my pasta with his open mouth, sleeping ears, lazing curls pressed into my chest.
I don’t know how to take my time lately. I only know him awake, nursing. I am not walking the streets eighth Onigiri, not settling on egg salad on fluffy white, not scuttling like a crab onto the train. I am sitting. This is what it feels to stage a real luncheon.