In the cafeteria

Beef bourguignon, tofutti, or Cuban sandwiches- with or without the bread?
It’s so hard to choose, I said, turning to my companion.
Isn’t it?
I really feel like a Cuban sandwich, but it’s not the same without the bread.
Tofutti, I say, pointing. I’ve decided to be good.
The woman behind the counter dips her serving spoon into one of the empty trays. They’ve heated each tray on top of a bed of dirty water. I know this because I used to work in a restaurant myself and no one ever dumps that water out at night after the hot selections have been removed.
I can’t resist- says my companion. Cuban sandwiches- but without the bread.
She winks. Baby steps, she says.
I grab us silverware and take too many napkins. I feel guilty about the amount of napkin I’ve taken, so I push them to the side of the table we choose in hopes that someone else will use them. I imagine, however, that they’ll just get thrown out. Why don’t I just stand up and put them back?
Hmmmmmm, says my friend, sniffing her food. This just smells delicious.
She is very convincing. I look at her plate. There is a speck of something small and dry stuck near the middle of it.
Mine’s too hot to eat just yet, she says, folding her arms.
I pick up my fork. I forgot what I have supposedly ordered. Oh yes, I remember. I tell my companion that I wish I had chopsticks.
Oh- she says. You should drop that into the suggestion box.
I push my fork into what I imagine to be the center of a thick slab of tofu. I decide that it is resting on a bed of ginger scallion sauce and so I push the piece on my fork around and around to soak up the sauce.
Is it good? She asks, after I’ve taken my first bite.
It could be spicier. They always err on the side of caution, here.
She nods. She raises the fork to her mouth. I watch as she closes her lips around the prongs. She takes time to swallow. She puts her fork back down. Shouldn’t you be eating that with your hands? I ask.
She looks down at her plate. Well, it’s not really a sandwich without the bread, she says, pointing to what I assume she intends for me to think is lettuce.
Plus, this way it lasts longer. You want to try?
I grimace.
No, but thanks. I stare down at my plate trying to imagine how much there might be there- how large or small a portion. Do you want to try mine?
I am disheartened when she says, yes, as sharing isn’t part of my repertoire, yet.