Let There Be Light
It’s nearing 2 p.m. on a Wednesday, and every table at M Café is taken. Doesn’t anybody work in this city? Having just survived my first spinning class, I’m ravenous. I try hovering over various diners with an I’m-very-busy-and-important look on my face for about five minutes. Nothing. I’m ready to give up hope. Just then, I spot a tiny space on the bench at the communal table next to an obscenely attractive man with a shaved head and a soft smile draped across his lips. Suddenly, things are looking up. I pat my still-sweaty hair into place, tiptoe over to the hottie and, in my best starving-girl voice, ask, “Can I squeeze in here?” “Of course,” he smiles, scooting to his right. “Do you have enough room?”
A few minutes of eavesdropping later, I discover that he is a yoga teacher who goes by the name Light. Yeah, I know . . . But did I mention how hot he is?
Light is midconversation with a bandanna-clad woman who is shoveling peanut-sprinkled kale into her mouth. As soon as he finishes speaking, she launches into a diatribe about her myriad acts of food martyrdom.
“When I consume an animal that has been killed brutally, I can just feel it,” she moans. “You’re a pescetarian, right?” She gazes at Light as she says this, no doubt wondering, as I am, what sorts of food give him his signature glow.
After a thoughtful pause, Light says, “I focus more on how I eat than on what I eat.” He then calmly picks up his chopsticks and slowly raises a succulent bite of rice to his lips.
I look down at my hummus-and-falafel wrap, only to discover that between listening to Light and trying to hear what Kirsten Dunst is ordering, I have eaten half my meal without even noticing. That’s when I know that Light, in all his gorgeous yogafied goodness, isn’t the one for me. He could never be happy with someone who scarfs so mindlessly.
Done inhaling her greens, the bandanna-sporting Doctor Dolittle girl gets up, leaving Light to poke at his rice bowl in peace. A few oh-so-mindful bites later, he gets up too. I stick around to polish off my hummus wrap. And to scope out Kirsten Dunst’s outfit: jean shorts, a white T-shirt and red ballet flats. Perfection.
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