Last night we went out for Ethiopian food. This was not my idea. I am what is known as a picky eater and new exotic foods are not usually on my menu. I was bullied into trying Ethiopian by my mother. My parents both have a huge appreciation for good food, they plan their trips around 5 star restaurants, and I’m sure it’s a disappointment to them that I don’t share that love. For weeks now my mom has been talking about wanting to go to the Ethiopian restaurant so I finally gave in and we went last night. And I liked it.
Yes, you read that correctly. It was actually pretty good. The bread that you use as a scoop wasn’t that good but the flavors in the meat were wonderful. I enjoyed myself. Eric would have been really surprised. He would have been surprised not only that I went and liked the food, but that I actually tried the food when we were there. I’m not known for being adventurous.
I don’t like having new experiences without being able to share them with Eric. It feels traitorous. Every new friend, new experience, new television show even, shows how my life is continuing while his is not. He would have enjoyed the build up to getting me to go to the restaurant and the next day decompression phone call. Actually, he probably would have been a little disappointed that things went so smoothly and there wasn’t a funny story to go with it.
I still talk to him in my mind and wonder what he would think of things, but it’s not the same. And it will never be the same. And I hate that.
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