Imaginary Friends

Whenever he and his wife Rawia had friends over, or would go to theirs for dinner, Brian liked to imagine beforehand how the conversation would go. He’d rehearse in his head the opening gambits, the witty responses and the insightful aperçus that he imagined he would deliver, accompanied by the acknowledging nods or perhaps a raised eyebrow or two from the assembled company.

And so, he’d sit down at the table with heightened anticipation, mentally rubbing his hands together at the prospect of the delightful discourse to follow. Only to be swiftly disappointed each time because, in truth, of course, the to-and-fro across the dining table would never tip his way and he would inevitably find himself consigned to the conversational margins, at best clumsily inserting himself with a remark that would fall as flat as the beautifully charred breads Rawia liked to make to go with her baba ghanoush.

And also in truth, it had to be admitted they were all really her friends and not his. A fact that became quite starkly evident after she’d gone and the invitations from them petered out and those from him went unanswered. Still, despite the lack of actual occasions, he persisted in imagining these elaborate dinner-time discussions as he trudged to the supermarket and back, laden with the week’s supply of meals-for-one.

But after some months of this, the hope of non-imaginary social intercourse, even if only as a conversational voyeur, dwindled and died. Brian’s fantasies then began to seep out from his head and escape into the dining room. Every few weeks or so he would consult the cookbooks Rawia had left him, go out and buy the appropriate ingredients and then make his best attempt at recreating some of the meals she had served in the past. Hummus and flatbreads were easy enough, and even he could manage those. Turning out some decent falafel was trickier but he eventually mastered that too. And before long he rather fancied himself a dab hand at cooking mahshi, stuffing the courgettes generously with minced lamb and rice, although he felt that his kanafeh, with its stringy pastry and super-sweet syrup, never quite met Rawia’s high standards.

Nevertheless, after he had prepared an array of dishes, he would set the table, pull out the matching chairs just so and serve a half-dozen plates of what was, again truth be told, some delicious food. Over which he would then hold forth, occasionally pausing to take a bite himself and incline his head as if listening to the response of whoever he imagined would be sitting around the table with him.