What I saw:
- My clothes on the floor next to the bed.
- A pile of papers and books on the coffee table.
- Cream swirling into my coffee.
- Larry lying on the sofa.
- A stack of newspapers under his feet.
- The cat lying on the back of the sofa, above Larry's head.
- Cyclist in my way as I ran.
- A bowl of crips at G's.
- A table set for four.
- A white black cab stopping to take us home.
#8: A Bowl of Crisps at G's
Potato chips, 'crisps' because I'm in England now, beckon to me. They sit on the end table in G's living room. I haven't been there since camping out last December after the fire at ours. J is on the sofa, next to Larry. G is in the kitchen, apologizing that dinner is going to be late. His iPod in in the Bose player on the bookshelf to my left.
I want the crisps, but they're not on my reducing plan. Neither is the red wine I'm drinking. We'll call this a cheat evening rather than a cheat day — and I did run seven miles today, faster than I had planned.
I have pistachios instead. They are delicious and I'm thankful they're not cashews, because I'd be downing them by the handful. Larry and J are talking about the insurance market (J's job) and I want more wine. The shell dish (brown ceramic, just like the two next to it that harbor nuts and crisps) is filling up while the pistachios slowly disappear inside my gut.
G moves my wine glass to a coaster, saying, "Sorry to be an old woman about that."
"Not at all, it's your house," I say, instead of telling him it's stemware and therefore won't leave a mark. You don't need coasters with wine glasses.
He changes the music to something I've never heard before, but would be happy to play on a rainy afternoon at home. Which, being England, never happens. An indy band that sounds like something you'd slit your wrists to. "Is it too dour?" G asks.
"No, I like suicide dinner music," I say. The potato chips' siren call is too tempting and I start to slide down the slippery slope of having just the one. Mmm. Salt and crispy fat. So much for the reducing plan.