We gather in clusters of four, five

underneath the June sun.

cars like unbreakable, metal bubbles

a two by two meter shelter, 

condensation forms on windshields, 

uniform width apart in the parking lot 

a muffled clamour of discussion, 

some are loud, vivacious

booming laughter erupts from their bubble,

like firecrackers underwater

others are self-conscious, reserved,

tentatively sharing what they couldn’t,

retreating to their noodles during 

unfilled gaps in conversation 

the once polished, handmade, ivory chopsticks

alabaster marble, speckled with emerald-green jade

replaced with uneven, wooden twigs

splintered and chafing against my raw skin

the missing weight in my hand unsettles me

I fumble with my utensils 

the mixed aroma of Kimchi, stir-fried mushrooms, marinated beef 

reduced to the leafy, tangy scent of my Buckwheat noodles

sipped no longer from prismic, glass bowls

but disposable, plastic 

lifeless and dull against my cracked lips

I sip the cold broth 

Familiar faces peek through tinted windows

distinct voices rack the back of my brain,

there’s the man who always came on Friday evenings,

there’s the boy who eats all vegetables but tomatoes

there’s the grandmother who only orders Oolong tea

the regular customers, reunited

I didn’t realize we were “regular” until now

I wonder if I should say hello