more for me

we talk about
gluten for six hours.
we're sitting outside
at a restaurant.
I listen.
she talks.
I ask her what gluten is.
she tells me.
well, she says,
adjusting her glasses,
it's a molecular thing,
then begins to tell me
the long list
of foods that have gluten
in them.
the sun moves behind the building,
leaving long shadows
under the trees.
you can't trust non gluten
oats, either, she says.
they touch the same
machine that handles
wheat. they don't clean
the machinery in between
processing.
she arches her eyebrows for
effect.
I tell her
I never heard of gluten
until a few years ago.
I ask her if it's a trendy
thing, not eating it,
she frowns and looks away
to other tables,
to people having real conversations
about books
or movies. she looks at
a bird eating a crouton
on the sidewalk. I see it too,
but bite my tongue
and say nothing.
the waiter brings bread
to the table.
warm bread that you can
smell from ten
feet away. the steam rises
in ribbons.
I grab a piece,
tossing it from hand to hand
because it's that hot.
I slide some butter on
one side and watch it melt.
the crust leaves crumbs
on my shirt as I bite down.
bread, I ask her?
holding the basket up.
no, she says, there's gluten
in it.
I move the bread basket
to my side
of the table.
what about peanuts, I ask her,
any trouble with those?