On food, and being alone

As I sit at the garden table, eating scrambled eggs on buttery toast with a side of dressed spinach, hummus and avocado, I notice something.

I notice my scrambled eggs on buttery toast with a side of dressed spinach, hummus and avocado.

I notice the way my teeth sink into the soft, salty, peppery eggs and meet in the squidgy, buttery, sponge of the bread, and how if I suck just a little the melted butter runs around my tongue in the most delightful way.

I notice the avocado slices trying to escape the prongs of the fork, slipping and sliding over one another as if to say ‘…not me! Not yet!’

I notice the stems of the spinach, bending and cracking as I roll them into the creamy, grainy hummus.

I notice this because I am alone.

No-one to ask me what I am thinking.

No-one to talk at me talk at me talk at me.

Nobody here but me.