“But it tastes so good,” he said, mouth full, bits of white sugar flying out of it onto his chin. He wiped it with the back of his hand. This morning he had what was a little more than a five o’clock shadow. It made him look totally different. Not so boyish. More manly. A tiny, white grain of sugar had perched itself on one of the small tufts of hair. I pointed at it and he wiped his face some more. And then he filled another spoon with sugar and passed it to me.
I took the spoon in my hands and looked down at it for a while before tilting the spoon over my coffee. I watched the grains trickle off the spoon, cascading into the black liquid. I looked up at Mark, almost for reassurance, and he nodded. I dunked the spoon in and stirred until it felt like all the grains had dissolved into the liquid. And once that was done, the excitement to get it to my lips was almost too much to bear. And when I sipped . . .When I sipped. . .
“Oh God, that’s goooooood.”
He nodded at me. “Breakfast?” He moved off to the stove and lit one of the gas hobs, but then turned back to me. “Oh, I forgot, you don’t eat—”
“Breakfast.” I nodded in agreement.
He gave me a smile. “Good decision. Most important meal of the day, you know.”
I scoffed. “And most stressful.” I took a long, slow sip of my coffee.
“How’s that?”
“Trying to think of the most Insta-worthy breakfast to make. Trying to get the perfect picture of it. By the time I’m done and it’s posted, I’m exhausted and then I have to reply to all the comments on it.”
Mark paused. He turned the stove off and then looked at me sternly. “Let me get this straight. Because you put all this pressure on yourself to make the perfect breakfast and take a picture and then post it and wait to see what the response is . . . Because of all that, you don’t really have the time and energy to eat it. Is that correct?”
I nodded.
“I see.”
“See what?”
“Are you hungry at breakfast?”
“Um . . .” I thought about it. “I guess. But by the time I’m done, it’s time for lunch.”
“And do you take pictures of your lunch too?”
“No, breakfast is a way more popular hashtag.”
“I see,” he said again, slowly and thoughtfully. “Do you do anything for yourself?”
The question stumped me. “Of course I do.”
“Doesn’t sound like you do.”
“I do,” I said defensively.
“Really? Seems like you don’t do anything for yourself, you only do things for the benefit of others, or for likes and comments and whatever your ex says you should be doing.”
I shook my head. “I do a lot of things just for myself.”
“So you have a wide variety of hobbies that you don’t post and share with others?”
“Um . . . no, but I do . . . that is, that I . . . um . . .” I slowed down and then finally stopped talking.
“Name one thing that you do in your life that you don’t share with the world. One thing that’s just yours that you do purely for your own enjoyment!”
I looked at him, and my mind went blank. And then I shook my head. “Nothing.”
“And don’t you think that’s absolutely ridiculous, now that you think about it?”
I considered his question very carefully. “You know, it’s funny,” I started solemnly. “Since coming here, a place that is so cut off and far away from it all, where social media isn’t part of every minute of your day because it can’t be, I guess I’ve wondered about that myself. Because when I say these things out loud here, they do sound . . .” I paused, looking for the words.
“Ridiculous?” he repeated.
