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The Art of Eating Alone - Eng. Observation Paper Oct. 2005
Union Station has always fascinated me. The original clock that hangs in the main hall could tell many stories of people from 1914 to today that have passed under it. Today there are restaurants and gift shops that fill spaces that were once rows of seating. I am sure that the Station has seen many different types of travelers, including those traveling alone. With over 6 billion people in the world there are still those that travel and dine alone; some prefer it while others have no choice. Today I see couples and families with cameras in hand taking pictures of that old clock that is still not speaking to me. Just as my eyes settle on a macho looking guy in a pink button up shirt with salt and pepper hair he stops in front of the cafe that has open seating overlooking the main entry way. My eyes move away from him to the caf� where I see a man eating alone. He's older, dressed in a perfectly pressed pale blue long sleeve button up shirt and dark gray pants. The shirt is buttoned all the way to the top, making him look uncomfortable when he swallows. The noises of dirty dishes being clanked together and other customers ordering seem to not exist in his dining world. He glances at a magazine and gets distracted, not wanting to pause to take another bite. Slowly he brings the next few bites to him, moving the bread and spoon over the magazine to meet his mouth. Occasionally he wipes his hands on the perfectly folded linen napkin that lies in his lap. His hair is thinning and completely white. His legs are neatly tucked under his chair. His small bites and slow chewing make you feel like he's perfect at everything he does. I imagine his socks are perfectly folded in a suede lined drawer safe at home, waiting for the moment he sheds light upon them. As a wedding party passes through the main hall he stops reading, puts his glasses on and watches the parade of the bride and her maids until they make their exit. He stares at the spot they used to fill until he finally picks up his iced coffee and holds his elbow stiff out to the side of him while taking a small sip, not to risk any sudden movements or need to move the napkin from his lap to his mouth. He finally cradles his soup bowl in one hand and lifts the spoon with his other, still not straightening his elbow. Feeling he had gotten every drop he could without barbarically drinking from the bowl he places it back on the white linen lined table. He places his elbows on the table and holds his hands in a praying position. He changes his hand stance a few times as he starts to look over the crowd. The waiter removes his dishes and brings his bill. He mumbles something to the waiter and hands him his credit card. He neatly folds the receipt from his bill and creases it perfectly in the center then places it in his front shirt pocket. As he puts on his dark blue wool sweater he looks more like a professor than an older man dining alone. Just as quickly as I saw him he vanishes in the crowd. To go home and place his perfectly creased receipt with the others from every lonely meal he had eaten this month. Suddenly he appears again, taking a stroll under the famous clock. I can see his face clearer, his cheeks are very smooth and his lips are almost womanly, full and pouty. His brand name brown shoes squeak on the tiled floor, which is shiny from layers upon layers of wax. He has a friendly face yet he does not seem approachable. He seems comfortable with his lack of companionship. He disappears again, only to return with a small bag from the Chocolate Factory. He will go home and place his shoes in the exact same spot he has for 25 years. His socks will be neatly placed in his clothes basket that still looks brand new after years of use. His chocolate will be placed in the refrigerator next to the bottle of wine he will open later. His button up shirt and pants will be taken off and placed in the bag that goes to the dry cleaners. His white undershirt will be exposed and eventually he will be wearing his cotton robe that has been lying perfectly across his made bed, just waiting for his return. Then he will pour his glass of wine and turn on the TV which is already on his favorite history channel. After a couple hours of only TV noise he will slowly say "ah chocolate," remembering his treasure from the chocolate shop. He will let each bite entice his mouth while tasting the flavors of contentment and awakening. After enjoying every savory bite and not leaving even a crumb he will turn off the TV, shut off all the lights, check the door locks twice and walk upstairs to his bedroom. He will then sit on the side of his bed for a moment and reflect on the wedding party he saw at the Station, remembering his own wedding and miss his wife a little more as he usually does around this time every night. Then he will climb under his smooth covers and feel the cold crisp sheets on his bare skin, the closest thing to a hug he has felt in months. As silence consumes the air he will clear his throat, tasting the peppermint from his toothpaste. He will close his eyes and wonder where he will eat dinner tomorrow night.
