The Question at Dinner

My friend asked what I was staying for. I had prepared an answer about Barcelona and discovered it belonged to someone more certain.

We were halfway through dinner when they asked. The plates had been moved toward the middle of the table, and the water glass near my hand kept catching a warm reflection from somewhere behind me. I had been describing the demo from yesterday because music was easier to explain than the promise.

“What are you staying for?”

I smiled because the question sounded larger than the table could hold. Then I gave the answer I thought a person in my position should give: the apartment, the light, the rhythm of the neighbourhood, the sea close enough to reach before breakfast.

My friend listened without interrupting. That made the answer worse.

Everything I said was true, but truth can still be rehearsed. I had described why Barcelona is attractive, not why I am choosing it. The difference sat between us with the empty plates.

“You’re listing what is here,” they said. “Not what you’re doing here.”

I looked down at the water glass. For a second I was annoyed with them for noticing exactly what I had been avoiding. Then I was annoyed with myself for wanting the question to be unfair.

I told them about the demo. Not the safe summary, but the part where I heard caution inside every unfinished choice. I said maybe staying was connected to that. Maybe I am trying to remain near one thing long enough to become responsible for its shape.

The sentence sounded overworked as soon as it left my mouth. My friend laughed, gently, and said, “There you are.”

That was the relief: not that I had found the answer, but that the answer could be awkward and still be more honest than the beautiful list.

We changed the subject after that. Dessert arrived. Nothing was resolved under warm restaurant light.

But on the walk home, I kept the less elegant sentence.