A Love Story

Eating, fantasies about eating, and the aftermath of eating occupies almost my entire social life. If I were an anorexic, I would have no friends, and my family would shoot me like Old Yeller because of what use am I if I can't eat with people? I have been told, much to my delight, that I dance on a fine line between food and garbage. I am proud of this because it is a trait that I shared with the greatest love of my life. I call her the greatest love of my life while she calls me a sick, obsessed fan who needs to get a life. Lovers' quarrels, that is why we were meant for each other.

My sweet lady friend, who I have adoringly deemed dead since leaving me on this godforsaken continent, became my friend many years ago over a plate of quesadillas. I watched enthralled as she snatched a plate of old quesadillas from a strange woman at a Tex-Mex restaurant and proceeded to gleefully devour her prize like a glorious baboon. She then declared that she avoided paying for food whenever possible and that free food was her favorite food. Then she got up and bought a milkshake. I was dazzled by this elegant lady. From that moment on, I knew that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her.

My elegant, baboon, lady friend and I became incredibly close over the years, and one of the reasons for our powerful bond was our common attitude towards food. We loved food and did not discern between garbage and food. One time on an evening stroll, I spied a paper plate of ambiguous leftovers on the sidewalk. Being the attentive companion that I am, I kindly alerted her by shouting, "Hey man, free food! Free food's yo favorite food!" She responded by punching me in the head, which meant "I love you."

Those were the glory days of our relationship. I remember like it was just yesterday we couldn't decide on what to eat for dinner so we each ate a pint of ice cream. She had the Blue Bell Anniversary Sundae because she was such a refined and classy lady. I watched as she passed out on the floor in a sugar-induced coma. Her collapsed body in the prone position, like some kind of enormous penguin in mid-slide. "Beauty, isn't she?" I thought. Soon I too fell asleep, dreaming of a land of ice cream and riding my penguin lady friend down a sundae mountain. Later I was awoken by her roommate who had come home late and probably wanted me to get out of her bed. Remembering my manners, I asked, "Hey, you wanna get some wings for dinner?" She replied, "It's three A.M." Alas, I was in love and had lost all concept of time and space.

One of the most adorable things about my friend was her insistence on keeping food long past their expiration date. It was one of the things that made her special. On one of our romantic weekend roadtrips, she gave me an egg custard tart which I eagerly accepted. My teeth mashed into a soggy crust, and a dairy-tinged smell clouded my nose. The tart had begun the early stages of decomposition, but my ambitious lady friend refused to give up on it. Giving up was not in her nature. Alas, it was her determination and fearlessness in the face of bacteria that attracted me to her. I spat the wad of molded pastry out in a napkin, wrapped it up and stuck it in a crevice of her car. I knew she'd know what it meant when she found it.

"I love you."

The years flew by as our love aged like the molded cheese she told me was safe to eat. It's been almost a year since she died. I've since moved on with my life, knowing that she is in a better place... one that has better Korean food because that bitch is in Korea. I think of her often and wonder if she thinks of me. The taste of cheap bread brings tears to my eyes and reminds me of the romantic evenings where we tried to see how many sandwiches we could eat. The sight of garbage on the floor evokes nostalgia and a hint of fear of my head being punched. I miss her. I will always remember her laugh, her smile, her scent. The scent of staleness.

Goodbye, my love