The dining hall is the hub of the campus–there’s just something about readily hot food that encourages people to gather. Conversation rises and falls with mealtimes, there are regulars, there are favorites and there are memories. You walk in, not expecting much. Tune out the conversation and extra noise, go about your business without fuss. Look up, find a seat. There he is. Waiting, smiling, as reliable as the sun. In his view, you glide, perfect poise and balance, to take your seat across him, this is what a dining hall is meant for. If connection didn’t make food better, we wouldn’t eat with others, we wouldn’t sit down to have dinner–it is a behavior, a comfort we all subconsciously engage in. You sit across from him, and you smile. He opens his mouth–stories about his day, annoyances, kind moments, the taste of the coffee raised to his lips–pursed against the bitterness, he’s trying black just for you.
Your friendship has continued in this matter for quite a while–meetings after class in the dining hall, at first to study for mutual classes, but when those ended, for comfort of conversation in a crowded place. You think he has a stressful life, you’re not really sure why he’s chosen you to spill the moments of his day to. Occasionally, you worry that he uses you as something you are not–a dumping ground for emotion, the secret playground for his soul, words he cannot bring into his real life–but then he takes a deep breath; a sip of coffee, a bite of food, a smile.
“How about you? How was your day?”
And gleefully, you oblige. And regardless of how exciting or thoroughly mundane the story, he hangs on to every word. You are familiar in each other’s lives–he knows your friends, professors, classes, and you know his. You have mutual jokes, a mutual routine. So you notice when you sit down and he’s nervous. His sigh does not come naturally, and he rushes through his day, not mentioning the little details his tales are usually ripe with. You recount your daily triumphs and downfalls with hesitation, he still seems distracted and now you’re worried. He taps his fingers on the table rhythmically as you finish, a tick you’re unfamiliar with, and looks up, looks sick, looks like he’s about to break the worst news, and he says–
“What are you doing tonight?”
“Um, nothing, are you–?”
“Do you want to get food?”
Your heart jumps, your stomach floods with relief–nerves, not about anything bad, but about–
“Here?” Jokingly, keep it casual–
“No, not here.” The dip of the head, the goofy smile, these are the things you are used to, things that make your hopeful heart flutter. “I think a change of scenery would be nice.”
“Your head is getting boring with the same backdrop.” Uncertainty, no! “But yes. Yes, yes I would love to. Dinner?”
He smiles, and starts on his cookie. He has one for every meal.
“Dinner.”
House of my Soul 