When I say “food court,” I’m really not painting the right picture. It’s an eating area on the seventh floor of a tall building near Lake Michigan. There’s a bar in the middle, staffed with several people in black shirts, and it’s surrounded on either side by open-air, watch-them-cook mini restaurants. Aloha Poke Co., Hot Chi, Lucky Cross, and The Fat Shallot sandwich shop, just to name a few. The food looks and smells amazing.
You won’t find Sbarro here, that’s for sure.
The first time I was here, I didn’t even stop to grab food, but now? I’m going to sit, and I’m going to eat.
By myself.
And who knows, I might even strike up a conversation with a stranger.
Two things under number eight crossed off.
Take that, John.
I walk over to one of the restaurants and take a look. The girlbehind the counter watches me expectantly, then smiles and points over to a bank of kiosks.
Oh. Everything is high-tech now. You don’t give your order to a human—you punch it into a computer. I nod at the girl, feeling old, then walk over and scroll through the different restaurant options. I could order from any of the different places just from one kiosk.
Well, that’s dangerous.
There’s abunchof stuff on here I’ve never heard of before, and my recent need to taste new things is taking over my brain.
I swipe through the options, overwhelmed with possibilities, but I finally settle on the Aloha Bowl with pineapple, cucumber, scallions, and Maui onions. But then I add a Ramen Wrap from a place called Art of Dosa. Noodles, sriracha mayo, and something I’ve never heard of called katsu, plus there’s something on it called a black “gunpowder” spice blend.
Sounds spicy. And new. And different.
I scroll to the drinks and select a Dr Pepper, hoping the twenty-three flavors will be enough to handle the gunpowder.
Once I pay, I take my printout and wait over by the ramen counter, scanning the airy, modern space as I do. There’s a man on a laptop, diligently working. Beside him are two men who appear to be in deep discussion. In the corner, there’s a group of four older women playing mahjong, and beside them, a woman about my age is sitting alone reading a book.
I notice that her plate is full, like she just sat down, and she’s at a large table with three empty chairs.
I could eat alone in a public place or talk to a stranger. But as a man calls my number and I pick up the tray with my food on it, I’m still not sure which one I’ll choose.
I bring the tray around to the other restaurant’s window, and as soon as I’ve got my wrap and Dr Pepper, I turn around, inhale a deep breath, then start off in the direction of the woman.
Maybe she needs a friend as much as I do.
At that moment, I’m transported to the first day of kindergarten and Gram’s advice on how to make friends. Gram was a sturdy woman, and not the warmest person, but she was a fierce friend. She and her best friend, June, had known each other practically since they were born, and I had no doubt Gram would’ve done anything for that woman. She knew something about making friends—the good kind.
“Don’t be afraid, Claire,”she’d said.“You walk up to a table with an empty seat and ask whoever’s sitting there if you can join them. Maybe ask if they want to be friends. Ask what they like. It’s all about listening to other people. People like to talk about themselves. The only way to have a friend is to be a friend, sweetheart. Remember that.”
It had worked too. I met my best friend, Libby, because I sat down across from her at lunch and found out she loved Strawberry Shortcake as much as I did. We stayed friends all the way through high school.
I study the woman reading alone and wonder if she could be the Libby for this chapter of my life.
I stop next to her table on the opposite side of where she’s sitting. “Excuse me? Hi!”
She looks at me, eyebrows drawn downward in whatever expression is one step more abrasive than a frown. “Yes?”
The woman’s lunch sits untouched on her tray.
“Hi!” I repeat dumbly. “Do you, uh, mind if I sit with you?”
She looks around the space. “Why would you do that? There are plenty of empty tables.”
My grip tightens on the tray, and all at once I’m standing on the stage at the country club again, the bitterness of rejection on full display.
My face is on fire, and beads of sweat gather above my upper lip. “Oh! I’m here by myself, and I just thought maybe you’d like some company—”
