The Whole World

There was me in my car. There was my dog on my side, the windy road down to Laguna Beach. The ocean, bright and silver. Music in my ears, sun in my eyes, and a feeling of no return.

I was going to a retreat and we had decided he wouldn’t come. It was a warm and breezy Friday afternoon. Before I’d hit the road, I’d suggested:

“Why don’t we go have lunch at the Italian before I leave for the weekend! Your favorite place - you’ve told me so much about it!”

We sat shoulder to shoulder, looking at the horizon. The horizon was a parking lot. The food came in plastic containers. I tasted it and I didn’t like it.

I looked at him. He was devouring his. He was telling me “This is so delicious. My favorite place, my favorite food! Don’t you love it? These meatballs are amazing!”. 
I though they were too big and soggy and sad-looking in their plastic box.

But I didn’t want to kill his joy, to kill the moment, so I didn’t say anything. 
I ate the meatballs. I smiled gently, and I put my hand on his thigh.