belong

#NaPoWriMo, Day 2/30

i sit at the coffee shop –
a café, as they call it,
and stare at my omelette for a full minute.

i pick up a spoon.
pause.
put it down.
the fork feels right.
fork in my left, i recall a bald white sophisticated villain from tv,
and pick up the knife on the right.

the napkin is too clean to dirty,
but i tuck it in anyway.

first cut.
turns out, i might not be half bad.
at this etiquette thing.

but as the last bite remains – my struggle begins.
too much noise, too little grace.
one, two, three tries later, i surrender.

i order an americano.
"black coffee," the barista explains,
as if translating something in french.
i nod like i belong here.
sip. too hot at first, but i pace myself.
my father would approve.
he always hated the slurp.

his hotel management diploma
would’ve served him well here, i think,
and leave a crisp hundred-rupee tip.
what would he think of me otherwise?

outside, i take photos for disappearing stories.
next time, better lighting, i make a mental note.

the door swings shut behind me.
i exhale.
strip down to five-year-old shorts.
boil water.
make instant noodles.
slurp them down.