I was 21 years old and three bites into my bagel – extra pickles, of course – when I noticed a woman sitting at the next table, looking my way.
She was middle-aged, bustling with joy, and eager to start a conversation. I was… eating my bagel… and as anyone who has frequented the Melbourne institution of Glick's will know, bagels are a near religious experience and one’s full attention is required. Please.
Alas, she seemed pleasant, and so I smiled and chatted along. But before long, I could feel the conversation veering into different territory, and oh okay, yes, it’s time for the interrogation now.
“Are you married?,” she enquired with a smile, her eyes quizzing my face.
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I chortled on my mouthful, “Nooo!”.
“Oh, but you have a boyfriend?,” she nodded, eyes brimming with hope.
“No… I don’t,” I found myself offering a slight smile. (Was I... a little apologetic?)
Pause. Her brow furrowed with concern.
“Oh.”
I detected a faint whiff of pity. And then, she found the most hopeful words she could muster: