Eighteen. That is the number of days that I have eaten alone. The count of time since I shared a meal with other humans and not a screen, a desk, an ergonomic chair.
Eighteen days since I have had companionship. That is a condemnation, a statement that I am living my life wrongly. I could say my shift job is to blame. I would be wrong. I could say my shyness is to blame. I would be wrong. A smart man would have predicted the solitary season and would have made plans to continue to be with others. I am not with others. Instead, I eat alone. The most basic communal rite, I am doing wrong.
This is not right. In this season of feast and reflection, of standing at the fire and passing the bottle with a tale, I should not eat alone. I should not be alone. But I am alone. This is wrong. I should have avoided the oncoming solitude.
This is wrong. Wrong.