Usually when I come in, the seats are always filled and people are always eating, but tonight was surprisingly dead. I looked through the glass doors and saw that the host was even bored; he was talking to one of the servers who I could only imagine had equally little to do. I entered the restaurant to the inviting smell of their signature dish, a deep and warm smell mixed with an undertone of grilled meat. 

 

The host saw me come in and greeted me with a familiar “Hello! It’s been some time since we’ve seen you!”

 

“I know, work has been killing me. This is my first day off in like two weeks,” I replied with a comforted smile appearing on my face. The staff knew me by now; I came in quite frequently throughout the rest of the summer. 

 

“Just you again tonight? Sit wherever you like,” the host said cheerily.

 

“Oh yeah, couldn’t get my friends to come with me this time,” I said in response, knowing fully my friends had not accompanied me here ever. I always told the staff about how I have recommended this place to my friends, and I continued to hope they would not ask why I never brought them. My friends had not even been in town for over a month now, and they had no real reason to return, especially not just to have soup with me.

I took a small table by one of the walls, not wanting to take up space. It was a quaint two person table by the door to the kitchen—I could almost hear the cooks. Last time I came in, my waiter had made a joke about getting me my own table for one. I had laughed it off in the moment. Maybe I could use my own table, save space for one more couple that might come in. But I didn’t want to think about how people perceive the fact I come in by myself often. Maybe even too often.

 

I picked up the menu, perusing through it as if I didn’t already know what I wanted. A large bowl with chicken and extra limes. It’s what I had gotten every time I came in. I looked at all the other options, wondering how they might taste when the waiter interrupted my train of thought by saying,

 

“The usual?” with his familiar smile and tone. 

 

I hesitated for a moment. I had a very sudden urge to say steak, tripe, or really anything besides chicken. Perhaps something could be better? I wondered in that moment what steak might add to the flavor of the soup, or what most people got when they—

 

“Yes, please,” I replied finally, interrupting myself before I ended up stalling for too long. The chicken was good, I could always count on that. Maybe I can get the steak next time. I wonder how the staff would react to that? Maybe they would be shocked, maybe even more shocked than seeing someone else come in with me. What was it the host said when I came in? “Just you again tonight.” He always used that word, ‘again.’ Every single time it made my expression falter, just slightly. He seemed to ask every single time, pointing out that I was alone—and I noticed every single time he asked.

 

I tried imagining when I first started coming here, when I didn’t have to hear that word every time; it must have been over a year ago. I had come with my family once, but only once. I really had been coming here alone for that long. I pulled out my phone just to pretend I was at least having some interaction. But I can only convince myself of so much when I know I’m pretending. I saw my closest three friends, all staring at me from my phone’s wallpaper, the three of them now roommates in a dorm over an hour away. The last time I saw them was over a month ago when I helped them move into that dorm. I looked at more people in my phone and thought increasingly desperately about how many of them I had seen since graduation, but I was simultaneously disappointed and saddened to learn that the answer was not even one. I looked at my messages, and I hadn’t spoken to anyone but my three closest friends over text for even longer; the last time my phone even received anything was three days ago, from my Mom. She was asking what I did at work, and I only had one answer. It was the same answer I always had: “Same old same old.”

 

I put my phone down on the table and looked at the empty seat across from me. There always was an empty seat across from me, as much as I usually tried to ignore it. I imagined every person who had occupied the other end of this table, the silhouettes of hundreds– spouses, girlfriends, normal friends, all strangers to me– flashing through the seat for a few seconds. Some of them served only to mock me, yet all of them reminded me that the chair was only ever empty when I took the table.

 

“Here is your soup, and two extra limes. Enjoy!” the waiter said in the same way he always did, with the same overly cheery customer service toned words he always used. He sat my soup in front of me, and it was the same as always. The noodles rested at the bottom of the golden brown broth like a bed with the greens and chicken resting on top. The steam floating off of it as it freshly left the kitchen was enough to put a layer of fog onto my glasses, and its warm smell that lingered in the restaurant became more present. I squeezed my two limes into the broth along with some soy sauce, knowing from trial and error that was exactly the combo I liked best. I knew precisely what it would taste like, down to the flavor of each added garnish.

 

“Thanks,” I said with a forced warmth that still almost got caught on my teeth. I looked at the bowl, along with the table and the rest of the restaurant. I thought of every other place I had been by myself. My room flashed through my mind, nobody but me had been in or out since my graduation party. That was only family anyway. It was messy now, things generally piled and cords splayed. “Why clean it up, not like I’m showing off,” I had thought at the time. Maybe a more hopeful me thought I would get a reason to clean it eventually.

 

I thought of all the public places I had been, having spoken to nobody except whoever might be manning a checkout aisle. I must have passed hundreds of people, and exchanged not a word to any one of them. I looked at my soup and the empty chair again. Any one of those people could have been worth inviting to dinner today. There were dozens of people I interacted with daily not even three months ago, any of them could have also made welcome company today. There were even some I regretted not inviting to dinner back when we did talk.

 

I began eating my soup, mixing the noodles up from the bottom and incorporating the greens and the chicken. I ate a spoonful, and it was exactly what I expected. I imagined having someone in that other seat, not even speaking, just to venture eating with someone else. But it vanished when the thought creeped into my mind that imagining eating with someone else is almost more embarrassing than not imagining anything at all. Perhaps if I would have liked to spend quality time eating soup with someone, I could have asked them. But my imagination’s coping mechanism was a sign in itself that I had missed my opportunity in some way or another.

 

“Is everything ok here?” the waiter asked, coming straight from the back to my table. There was still nobody else in the restaurant. He came from the back– interrupting whatever he may have been doing– just to check on me.

 

“Yeah man, great as always,” I said, my tone falling by the word always. The waiter returned to the back shortly after my response, leaving me with a smile as his parting gift. My phone buzzed, vibrating against the table to make a grating sound that would go unfortunately unmasked. I looked at it almost too quickly to see an automated google notification about an article I had not read and did not care about. I put it back into my pocket slowly, as if waiting for it to buzz again and give me a reason not to. But it didn’t, and I had no reason to expect it to. 

 

So I ate my soup in silence, wondering just how many times I would eat in that silence. I imagined five years in the future, hopefully working full time and having moved out; not eating with anybody but myself and that silence. I thought ten years ahead and it was more of the same, more meals occupied only by the clinking of dishes and my own thoughts’ vain attempts to fill the space. Maybe in ten years I would come into this restaurant again, be greeted by an all new staff, take a seat upon my empty throne that is a two person table, and eat my soup. The ingredients and the cooks, the servers and the hosts, all different from when I got that soup today. Yet my soup would taste the same as it always did, my thoughts alone would have to keep me company like they always do, and it would be just as quiet. Yet the part that was even worse about that vision of life ten years in the future was that it sounded the exact same as five years in the future. It didn’t even sound too different from now.

 

I could feel that perpetual quiet close in around me like a coffin. My life– every part of it–  is just as quiet as the last. There might never be someone at the other end of my table. Perhaps I would be imagining someone there just to try and fill the void, no matter how embarrassing a thought it might be. That thought could only be embarrassing if I told anyone about it; yet a glance at the chair– at the taunting silhouettes that occupied it instead of a person– was assuring enough in its own way that nobody would ever know of that thought anyway. So I just continued eating my soup and glancing at the empty chair across from me far too often. Maybe I could try something new tomorrow.

Biography: I have always been drawn to writing as an outlet for feelings, expressions, and general vibes that I can’t otherwise capture. I can think of dozens of things every day– little moments, yet meaningful in their own right– that deserve to be captured in writing. I think the best moments are never loud or even particularly obvious, but that is exactly what gives them meaning. Documenting them and mulling them over makes me look at my life differently, and trying to present them in a way that does them justice is the only thing I can ever hope to achieve as a writer. Letting others have the chance to think about and reflect on what I write feels like a bonus to me. The concept of my expression being not just applicable to, but enjoyed by someone, is why I love writing. The idea we can all look at a story and understand its meaning and the feeling it evokes is an idea just as unique as the feelings it’s invoking.