There’s something about the way the waiter comes over, eyes scanning my face with a little hesitation, a hint of concern. It’s almost like they’ve learned the unspoken language of expressions, and my face, frozen in a particular way, has given me away. I wonder if they know they’re walking into a scene they can’t quite place, a mix of curiosity, mild distress, and contemplation. It’s not a hunger that’s visibly present, nor a dissatisfaction with the food itself, but something more subtle. The kind of expression that only shows itself when you’re lost in thought, when the world around you is there but distant, and the food in front of you has ceased to be a source of satisfaction.
When I look like this, with my brow furrowed and my gaze soft, the waiter inevitably walks by. It’s almost comical, in a way. I imagine them thinking, “This person looks upset about something,” when in reality, I’m simply mulling over the little things. The bite of flavor in the food, the presentation of the dish, the chatter in the background, the flickering of a candle, or the glint of a fork—trivial details that combine to make a feeling of general contentment. And yet, I don’t appear as though I’m at peace with my meal or the moment.
I’ve often wondered why it’s this way. Why does my face betray me in such a way that those who serve me feel the need to check in? Is it because my attention lingers on things that most people don’t notice? Or perhaps, is it the way my emotions reflect in my expressions, even when I don’t intend to share them with the world? I’d never thought about it much before, but lately, I’ve realized there’s a strange connection between how I feel and how others perceive me. In these moments, I’m caught in a limbo between presence and absence, between hunger and satiation, between the tangible and the intangible. The waiter’s question cuts through that, jolting me out of my internal world.
They always ask the same thing: “How’s everything?” or “How’s your meal?” There’s a pause that follows as I shift my focus from whatever distant thought was occupying me to the meal in front of me. I glance at the plate, the dish I’ve been eating without truly tasting, and for a split second, I wonder if it’s truly as good as it looks. I smile and answer, sometimes with enthusiasm, other times with a forced nod, because I don’t want them to think there’s something wrong with the food or with me.
But the truth is, it’s not the food at all. It’s never been about the food. It’s about the way I’ve allowed myself to slip into an almost meditative state, where the world goes quiet and the weight of everything else falls away, leaving me with nothing but the moment. It’s a moment I wish I could share, but instead, I find myself pulled back into the reality of small talk and pleasantries. The waiter, too, returns to their rhythm, moving on to the next table, unaware of the depth of my thoughts, unaware that I’ve already answered the question in my mind.
