raw

Walking home in the evening in a bitter mood, sure the magic is gone, unrecoverable, not even an evening with my city can make it right again; I reject it all and choose instead to reinforce my strangerhood. The savage mood generates a craving for a bite of bloody beef. Instead of the usual places, I look for someplace where I won't be known, ignoring the friendly come-ons of the drug dealers who would normally at least get a smile in passing. I pause in doorways to read menus until I find a promising steak entree, not too pricy. As a stranger I make my way to a table with a view of the rainy city. I sit in funk and try to remember who the philosopher was, who wrote of the red rag blowing across the street that transforms into a raw walking hunk of meat. That is what I have become, stewing in the juices of a brutal hunger beyond food.

Somewhere between the cabernet and the salad, even before the first bite of steak, there comes in swift reversal, suddenly and completely as an epiphany, a burst of unbidden, unaccountable joy. The building is historic and bears traces of past use, another time. The man sitting alone at the next table is enjoying a burger and fries, even after the waitress spilled his drink. A childs happy tones chime out, sweeter than a carillon. The steak is beyond perfection, buttery soft. I go back into the city, doubly reflected in the rain-wet streets, at home again.