my salad, by Samuel Beckett

An exact transcript of myself and the gentleman who kindly delivered my lunch today, trying to find each other:

Gentleman (on phone:) I’m here, I have your salad.

Me: Where’s here?

Gentleman. Here. I’m here.

Me: I’m here. Where are you?

Gentleman: Here.

Me: I’ll come outside.

(I go outside.)

Me: Okay, now I’m outside, do you see me?

Gentleman: Where are you?

Me: I’m here. Where are you?

Gentleman: Here.

Me: (wandering) I don’t see you, but I’m here.

Gentleman: wait, I see you.

Me: you do?

Gentleman: Yes, I see you there.

He appears, wandering towards me, my salad in a bag. We move towards each other, smiles peaking through masks.

Me: Sorry. I was here.

We part ways. He goes there. I stay here. I open the bag. The salad has no fork. I eat it with my hands.

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