Let's not pretend. I never liked you. Your food was never hot, exactly—just kind of warm-adjacent. Your mashed potatoes had the texture of ceiling spackle, and your chicken always tasted like it had been cooked by someone else thinking about chicken, but not actually making it.

And then there was that dessert: Seventh Heaven. A whipped cream, Jello, graham cracker Frankenstein dyed in some shades not even found in nature. It jiggled in the pan like it was alive; I avoided it like the curse.

Your walls were beige. Your carpet was brown. Your clientele was mostly silver-haired and wearing the same slacks I'd imagined they'd be buried in. The whole place felt like it was heaven's waiting room, but with cheaper coffee.

And yet, someone I loved, loved you. Which meant I showed up, again and again, grumbling in the car, rolling my eyes at the sneeze guards, scooping a too-small serving of green beans onto the tray like I was being punished.

But somehow, between the lukewarm rolls and the limp carrots, there was something else. A laugh from across the table. A hand on my arm. A story I'd heard a hundred times that still made me smile.

Refills of iced tea that tasted like mop water, but came with real conversation.

You were never about the food. You were about being there. For them. With them. Even if I was silently dying inside next to the cottage cheese bar.

Now, after all these years, I sometimes think about you. The clink of those plastic plates. The slow shuffle of old couples holding hands. That god-awful dessert.

And how, somehow, I'd give almost anything to go back. One more trip through the line. One more cup of bad tea. One more laugh with someone I can't laugh with anymore.

So yeah, I hated you. But I miss you.

And maybe that's love, in a weird, gravy-colored kind of way.

This has been a love letter to a forgotten thing. And sure, the macaroni was rubbery, the Jello was warm, and the sneeze guards perpetually fogged—but the people I sat with?

Perfect.