Tonight, day gazillion of quarantine, I eat leftover bread for dinner. I’m too tired to cook, though I haven’t done much. Perhaps my thoughts are a work-out.
The bread — dark, crusty, studded with black olives — has been sitting on the kitchen counter for three days. It’s so tough to chew, I doubt a dentist would approve. I could toast it to make it more palatable, but even that feels laborious.
Somehow, this hard bread comforts me. I recall a Dutch traveler I met in Hong Kong. Cute, long-haired, he’d spent a year in India and Cambodia, the time visible on his bony body and rumpled clothes.
“What do you miss the most?” I asked.
“Bread,” he said. Asian bread wasn’t the same. His eyes grew excited. “I dream about the bread from home.”
I chew my tough bread. I dream about travel, of a time when borders will open again.
[150 words]
Table Tales - 150 word stories 