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Seven-ten
I nudge the rolled omelet to the edge.
In the space it leaves, blanched spinach.
Last, a single cherry tomato.
I close the lid.
One of the clasps is a little loose.
When I open it at noon, everything has usually slid to one side.
The omelet has toppled, and the tomato has rolled onto the rice.
The rocking of the train, maybe. Or when I set my bag on the floor.
I’m the one who eats it, so it troubles no one.
For three years of high school, my father packed my lunch.
He was always out the door before me, so I never once saw him packing it.
Only the lunch, wrapped in its cloth, waiting on the kitchen table.
When I opened it at noon, nothing was out of place.
The omelet was a little sweet, and the silver foil cup that kept things apart sat in the same place every day.
On my way home from club practice, I’d leave the empty box in the sink.
The next morning, there would be another wrapped lunch.
That went on for three years.
I don’t remember saying thank you much, either.
Nor did I ever ask how he packed it. I have come all this way without asking.
Night, a little past nine
After work, two colleagues took me along, and I walked into a pool hall for the first time.
The two of them, it seemed, had been playing since their student days.
I didn’t even know how to hold a cue.
At the counter, they filled something in with practiced hands and took a basket of balls.
Just keeping up took everything I had.
At a table in the back, someone was setting balls into a triangle.
It took longer to finish than I’d have guessed.
“Mind racking them first?”
What they handed me was a wooden triangle.
Fifteen balls on the table.
The black 8, in the middle.
Never mind the finer points today, they told me.
I placed the balls inside the frame, one by one.
When they were all in, I lifted the frame.
One rolled softly forward, away from the rest.
Again.
This time, the back row opened slightly.
On the third try, it more or less became a triangle.
“That’ll do.”
My colleague bent over the cue and broke.
The sound was dull.
The pack never fully opened, and stopped in the middle of the table.
The other one took the frame without a word.
Pushed the balls forward, frame and all.
From behind, with fingertips, drew them in, ball against ball.
Then lifted the frame, slowly, straight up.
Not one ball moved.
I copied it and racked them again.
Back through my fingertips came the weight of fifteen balls.
I lifted the frame.
Nothing moved.
My colleague broke.
A crisp crack, and the balls spread to every side of the table.
Two dropped into pockets.
The triangle I had made was gone.
After that, they let me take a few shots.
I borrowed a cue from the row along the wall and, watching my colleagues’ hands, held it more or less the way they did.
The cue ball hardly ever went where I aimed.
They laughed, and played on.
Mostly, I stood beside the table and watched the two of them play.
Each time a game ended, I took the balls out of the pockets and gathered them into the frame.
The 8, in the middle.
From behind, fingertips drawing them close.
Every rack, every time, was mine.
Just once, I broke a triangle I had racked myself.
The balls spread better than I’d expected.
On the train home, I held on to a strap.
The hardness of the balls still lingered, a little, in my fingertips.
The next morning, seven-ten
I nudge the rolled omelet to the edge.
In goes the spinach, then one cherry tomato.
In the gap left at the corner, a single floret of broccoli.
Before closing the lid, I press the whole thing lightly with my fingertips.
Something presses back, just a little.
The clasp is still loose.
The train rocked, as it always does.
I set my bag at my feet, as I always do.
A meeting runs over, and lunch starts a little late.
At my desk, I untie the cloth.
I open the lid.
It held until noon.
I open the chopstick case.
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