On a dark wooden table, a single white plate catches a round pool of light. The potatoes have been halved into about eight pieces, with blackened char marks left on the skin side and cut faces that are soft and butter-colored. Finely chopped scallions are scattered like green dots, and one piece has rolled off onto the empty white rim of the plate.
Behind it, a glass stands amber and out of focus. On a windowless evening, a single lamp slants down from the left side of the plate.
At a sight like this, the body swallows on its own. The shoulders lean toward the table, and the hand is already feeling for the fork. The breath grows short and moves only at the tip of the nose. The body of someone who has used up the whole day tries to handle dinner like a chore.
Sometimes the urge to hurry the day to its end rises like hunger.
When the plate is set down, it may help to rest your hands on your knees and look at the charred face of a potato while counting to five. Then put the first piece in your mouth and chew it slowly, about twenty times. While the heat, the saltiness and the coolness of the scallions arrive one after another, lower for a moment the hand that was reaching for the second piece. These three minutes make the start of dinner.
The same slowing down can be carried over to a glass of water before bed. Holding the glass, notice the tension in your jaw as you swallow the first sip. Whether your back teeth are clenched tight, whether your tongue is pressed against the roof of your mouth.
There is no need to check what gets better. Simply noticing the state of your jaw is enough.
A little of the day's warmth still lingers in the wood grain at the corner of the table.
