Heature of Crabit

Since starting my new job I’ve been too lazy to cook. I finally made it to the grocery store this weekend so there’s really no reason for me to continue my dinner diet of grapes and beer beyond sheer exhaustion. The ingredients for two delicious feasts are in my kitchen, withering as they wait for me to get off my tuchus. Maybe tonight will be the night.

One of the byproducts of this inertia is that, having no leftovers to schlep to work, I must continually buy my lunch. I’ve been frequenting a place across the street from my office building called the Juice Joint and purchasing a healthful, nutritious meal I hope will make up for my dastardly dinner choices.

Make that the healthful, nutritious meal. Once I find something that works I tend to stick with it, an ethos that applies to apartments where the rent jumps to ridiculous heights, boots with heels I’ve worn down to their metal core and a silver bracelet I wear every day despite its lack of emotional significance.

The first time I went to the Juice Joint I ordered a Granwich—a concoction of avocado, tomato, cucumber and sprouts on toasted wholegrain bread—and a small fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice. It’s also what I ordered on my second, third, fourth and every visit since.

The manager there has started to recognize me and shouts out my usual order before I even have to part my lips. Today things were slower and he inquired after my marital status. I’ve seen things like that happen at coffee shops, where people like their caffeine fixes to be routine, but not at a lunch shop.

I kind of feel like a boring loser for ordering the same thing every day, but I just enjoy my choices so much: the crunch of the sesame seed crust, the crisp cucumber, the smooth avocado… the slow slurp of my grapefruit juice until the pulp wont fit up the straw…

I could write a sonnet.