Sustenance, both. An indulgence, sure. Lox and a bagel- too rich for my blood. We take the tepid sun on the patio, homage to our mutual addiction, where we might consume in peace, alone among our kind. Dirty cup rims, secondhand death. That's the way we like our lunch.
Every Thursday, every Sunday. Every day the strain on my pockets doesn't make too loud a noise, lunch is vital. Most days I can't keep up, but the therapy of not listening can't be avoided. Berlin, Stockholm, Chicago, Damascus. So many plans, so little money.