When I walk into a restaurant, alone, I have to do some heavy scoping before I choose a seat. A table that’s up against a single wall is okay, but a corner table is better. If the only tables available are ones in the middle of the floor, exposed on all sides, then I will probably turn around and leave.

Even the corner is a compromise. If it were up to me, I’d eat beneath the table, cross-legged, slurping my soup. Above me, the civilized humans could spread their napkins across their laps. They could bring the spoon to their lips with confidence, not spilling a single drop, not making a single sound as they eat.

So often in my life I fight the desire to slip beneath the table. In my dream world, I would experience things from underneath, present but unseen.

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This is Not a Picture of Me Naked