On Eating Alone

By Cathy Caudill

There is an art to eating alone.

She finds herself working angles. She can't face the people at the other tables lunching in groups. No, she would look like an eavesdropper. Nor can she face the wall; that would seem to say, "I have turned my back on the world."

Let the performance begin: the world is a stage, and she is the leading lady.

The setting is a hybrid of a student lounge and a bakery-café. The air tastes like cream-of-something soup. A new class period has begun, and the lunch-crowd has dispersed. Still, clusters of students linger, discussing classwork or sports.

A student capped jauntily in a Yankees hat feasts with a friend at a counter nearby. "46 to zero—the game lasts about four hours. It was ridiculous." He shakes his head and eats a fry. "It took them four hours to get there—two there, two back. Shouldn't have bothered going at all."

Bt she mustn't be distracted by the extras. Her own performance is all that maters. To begin: a juggling act.

She raises her phone: rapid-fire clicking and hitting "send."

Next the laptop: she opens her E-mail, rapid-fire typing and hitting "send."

A fry or two—then a sip of her hot beverage.

Finally, she raises her pen—it balances precariously on her finger-tips, as if it is unsure...but then it dives, nose-to-worksheet. Problem solved.

She rests her head on her palm. Her booted feet dangle from the stilted chari, swinging like weights on a pendulum.

She ruffles and runs her hands through her hair. Her fingers dance through he ringlets, like a woman spinning golden thread on a spindle.

She stares into space, her focus lost. She turns to see every person that strolls past her stage. Perhaps she is waiting for a fellow actress to enter he scene?

But until she does, she must hold her own. For this is art, and art is designed to relay a message: "I am comfortable enough to sit here alone, and that, ladies and gentlemen, is true confidence."