We only recently became friends.
There is an open ease and a timid unknowing between us.
I love her home. I love the way she lives her life, free of the limits so many carry.
Sometimes I hear uncertainty in her voice and wonder who gave it to her. And why she never gave it back.
She lives a life of pleasure. We eat olives and bread and smelly, creamy cheese. We drink wine from Europe. She refuses to drink American wine.
Even when she is struggling, she eats and drinks well. It’s something she requires, unapologetically. Like going to the dentist or getting a haircut. It’s how she takes care of herself. Through decadent nourishment.
I watch her smile as she takes a sip of wine.
And silently thank her for the permission she gives me to care for myself.