“You want to have coffee with me and chat?” I was taken aback.
“Sure.”
“What kind of coffee?” I wondered if he could do those things with the colored frothed milk that made it look like you had dolphins and flamingos in your cappuccino. Those made such good Insta pics.
He smiled at me. “Nothing fancy. But it looks like you could do with a friend right now.”
I almost opened my mouth and told him that if he wanted to be my friend he could follow me on @FitspoFrankie, but didn’t. I shook my head. “I’m okay,” I said. “I’m going to be okay. Everything is okay and perfectly normal and fine and okay.”
The man gave me a slow, sad smile. “Lass, when you’re taking photos of your breakfast and not eating it, something is not okay.”
It was the first time I’d taken note of his accent. It was thick and had a sing-song quality to it. I didn’t know exactly where he was from, but I was guessing the Scottish Highlands. For a moment I imagined him in a kilt, but pushed the image out of my mind.
“Something is definitely not okay,” he repeated and then I seemed to hear his words for the first time.
If I was taking photos of my breakfast and not eating it, something wasnotokay!
The strangeness of it hit me all at once. I had never thought about it before. But having someone point it out to me, in a place like this, it suddenly sounded so absurd. For years I’d been taking photos of my breakfast—and not just any photos, ones that were perfectly crafted and curated and styled and filtered—and in all that time I’d never eaten any of it. Not once. Not one tiny morsel of my perfect breakfast had ever touched my overlined lips. I threw my hands up in the air, looked over at the chef, and then I started laughing. He looked nervous for a few moments, as if trying to decide whether it was okay to laugh along with me, or whether my laughter was a sign of bad things to come. But then he threw his head back and also laughed.
“Now that’s the spirit, lass,” he said. “Laughter is the best medicine, isn’t it?” He had this big, hearty laugh, the kind you would expect from a red-bearded Scotsman type. It was deep and throaty and felt like it was the kind of laugh that could reverberate through walls. It wasn’t forced or fake either. It was authentic and genuine and suddenly I felt desperately sad. In the face of his obvious authenticity, I felt so suddenly inauthentic.Posting pictures and not eating breakfast.I was a fake breakfast eater! I was a liar, sharing my #nomnom breakfast and telling everyone how delicious it was, but never actually eating it. My laughter stopped abruptly and the Scotsman also stopped. I felt the tears in my eyes again, and I tried to bite them back.
“Now, now, that’s less of the spirit, lass,” he said, as tears started rolling down my cheeks. I was getting quite hysterical. I could feel it like a rubber band inside me being pulled until it was about to snap. I turned and watched the couple in the other part of the restaurant get up and walk out, eyeing me suspiciously as they went.
“This was a bad idea,” I finally said. “Coming here, to this town. This was such a stupid idea.”
“How do you figure that when you haven’t even been here for twenty-four hours?” he asked.
“How do you know how long I’ve been here?”
“Small town. Tiny hotel.”
I nodded and slumped back down onto the table again.
“You know what you need?” he asked.
“What?” I looked up at him from my face plant on the tablecloth.
“You need to go outside and get some fresh air. A walk in the Karoo fixes everything.”
“Does it?”
He nodded. “There is a quiet magic here in the desert—it has a way of seeping into your soul and making you new again.”
“Really?” I asked thoughtfully.
“Truly. There is something very spiritual about this place if you just tune into it.”
“I see,” I mumbled under my breath, even more thoughtful now.
Mmmm . . . Spiritual. Soul seeping. Making you new.
I lifted my head a little.
“Spiritual?” I repeated slowly.
“Very,” he said.
“I see.” I sat up straight now.
