His and hers

He is fond of environments in which he can not tell where he is;
she isn't, she wants to know where she is every moment
and makes reservations there as if she is at expensive
restaurant.

He likes movies; she knows that movies are like anything else--
there are very few good ones.

When the white wine comes he tastes it, wishing it was red. She practices lovingkindness, forgiving everyone she mistakenly belived has tried to harm her.

When he asks her about lovingkindness, she says she practices meditation and that once you meditate you realize it's always mistaken, the notion of hanging onto the idea that anyone is trying to harm you.

He orders juniper encusted bison, she the lobster salad. They split the check.

The man at the next table, out of the picture, has the menu in his hands. He's thinking about poetry,
that a poem is what takes you over and that any
control one might exert in the process is that of a collaborator.