Before today the last time I ate at—in—a restaurant was February. 2020. Easing into the future one (infrequent) meal at a time, I guess.
There was no light from the clouds or applause or orchestra hit. It didn't feel tense or taut or frightening. We picked a place that was nice enough that it didn't have to cram people in at the maximum (or above) to make money. It was boring enough.
My wife said she missed the fresh food—takeout is a nice substitute, but a substitute. I missed the presence of people—although there weren't many of them. The background hum of people is a warm feeling, A full feeling. A filling feeling.
I wonder about the lost time. I wonder why we—a fuzzy we, we are all on the same ship together, we are a we whether we recognize it or not, whether we choose it or not—lost so much of it. I wonder if we could have done better.
I don't know where we lost the time, but I know how to get it back.
There is no way. It's gone for good. Be better next time. Preserve the futures.