If she understood art, if she could write, if she was beautiful and smart and a tangle of other things, still taking shape, what she was truly good at was this. She ate slowly, she sat back from her plate, she allowed her pleasure to show on her face. And she was willing always, to try the next thing.
She had slipped this life for another, where time and event and memory all blended together into some other kind of sense altogether, traveling from one fantasy to the next. Sometimes words were the conduit, and sometimes food was the conduit -- cooking, eating, talking about food -- but always at the other end was this imaginary life, and she realized suddenly how much time she spent there. How much time she spent there alone.