Two is a nice number.
Two means that if you make a recipe for four, you can share Actual Dinner with someone, and then the following day, the two of you can have a very good (if not better) lunch.
What would it be like, to have someone get down two dinner plates? It might be nice. Actually, ah, I’m not quite sure that I own two dinner plates. Here, you take the dinner plate, and I’ll take the salad plate. No big. We won’t need to share a dessert plate — I mean I have the essentials.
This little scenario…it would have meant hopefully-not-too-wrinkled linens, a candlestick with a little life left, and a please-be the-right-size candleholder. Plus — cross your fingers, maybe, somewhere — the sticky little circle that is actually kind of critical. (It’s a good thing we aren’t really two.)
But if we were…it would have meant a shot at recruiting some help to eat all of that 2-for-1 kale. Which looked so good in the store. And now just looks like a lot.
What would it be like, to have a real, living, breathing reason to get to the gym a little bit later than planned? After a rousing game of five more minutes and okay two more minutes and just one more I promise and how about tomorrow instead?
It would have been a break, I think, particularly when it came to pull-ups. To have had someone there who wanted to work in. And give me a little boost on the last one. Totally not cheating. It also would have been really great if someone had been there to talk — about anything — while I planked.
And two might have meant someone to force me to stretch before dashing home. Should have worn a coat. That probably would have been good.
Two would have meant a short-lived mini quiche, cooked in a cast iron skillet. Versus, you know, quiche for days.
Two might have meant someone to cajole into running back out for coffee. Pretty please?
Two might have meant a hand to hold, out in the cold. Two might have meant someone else to have officially declared it Truffle Tuesday. (One for every pull-up done!)
Two might have meant something besides soup for feeling-so-lonely-I-could-just-die o’clock. Not that there was anything wrong with the soup. Not really. It just would have been better if someone had told me to take it easy on the rosemary. And had thrown in a cheese rind while it simmered. And had poured a little heavy cream in at the end. A little more.
Two might have meant a second opinion on those boiling onions. Too sweet. Two might have meant a shot in hell at opening that sealed-shut cider vinegar.
And afterwards, it might have meant someone to dry while I washed. And an easy exchange, back and forth, along with the occasional flick of soap. And lips tipping up into a smile. And a back to front kiss, with the water still running. And little flyaway wisps of hair, mostly not in the way.
Two. I miss it even though I didn’t want it when I had it.