“One thing: I don’t like ethnic food.”
What to do when you’re planning a night out and then you’re confronted by this?
She wanted “non-ethnic food.”
She wanted “food.”
“Regular food” cooked by “regular people.” Food that isn’t too spicy or too smelly or cheap, the kind of food, you know, that isn’t cooked by people from elsewhere.
Who knows where?
Which leaves me to surmise that what she really meant – what she was saying without saying it because, hey, we’re ladies, fucking ladies, after all, adult ladies in polite society – was that ethnic food was outside the realm of her experience as a human person who regularly eats food.
Why be adventurous? Why be worldly? Why be exotic?
We could be “normal.”
We could get “normal food.”
Anyway. This is my roundabout way of saying we are no longer friends, but “friends.”
And not “friends” but “acquaintances.”
People who know each other.
Humans living in a world with other humans where there is food, and we eat it.
How’s that for normal?
Possibly better. Possibly worse.
But good enough, I guess.