March 20, 2012

My dearest,

You ask me what I would like for dinner. I suggest either the Chinese steamed soup or something Japanese. We decide on Japanese – I have unagi over garlic rice in a hot pot; you tackle a half portion of udon in a milky broth. That’s not enough, I say, you’ll be hungry later. You pick up a tray of salmon sushi from the conveyor belt. That’s not enough, I repeat, you’ll be hungry later.

You shake your head. This is enough, you say. We shouldn’t overeat.

After dinner we head to the bakery and buy some buns for our breakfast tomorrow – a cheese bread for you and chocolate bun speckled with peanuts for me. I notice you bought two cheese breads but I remain silent.

Later, we get into the car and you ask me if you can eat the cheese bread. What now? I ask. You nod. Okay, go ahead, I smile.

As I navigate the bends in the car park, you tell me you just felt like eating the cheese bread; you had this inexplicable strong desire for it. It’s okay, I say, we should all succumb sometimes. Then I notice your hands are empty.

You’ve finished eating already? I’m astonished.

You nod, sheepishly. It was nice, you say.

I smile.

Yours, ever and always.