A Day of Roadside Rice Between Two Deliveries

Tuesday. Sun since early morning. Today I made myself one small promise: lunch would be eaten sitting down, engine off, not on the seat.

6:40. The first order is two bowls of beef noodle soup going to the next district. The smell of broth rises through the insulated bag and follows me down the whole road. I have been carrying other people's food since six, my own stomach empty, and for the first stretch I think about exactly one thing: when it will be my turn to eat.

9:15. Three orders back to back. I eat half a bread roll standing at the kerb, chewing fast to make the next pickup. By the second red light the roll is gone. The filling, I could not tell you.

11:50. The pavement rice stall at the head of the alley, Auntie Út's. I stop, kill the engine, take off my helmet. The plastic stool is still warm from the sun.

— What will you have, dear?

— Pork chop rice, Auntie, and a bowl of soup too.

— Sit against the wall, it's cooler. Eat slowly, I'll keep the spot.

The phone keeps announcing orders. I turn it face down on the table, as in the article about eating a meal without your phone, and let it buzz. Two orders slip past, I mind a little, then I do not. I also read once about meditation for the first three bites, so I try just the first three bites. The pork is grilled a little charred at the edge, fat seeping out, sour-sweet fish sauce with garlic and chilli touching my tongue. The rice is still hot. The plastic table trembles faintly each time a truck rolls by.

12:25. I slip. Halfway through the fourth bite I catch myself rereading a customer's message, "miss, why is it taking so long", and the bowl is half empty with no memory of eating it. I set my chopsticks down, breathe out, look at the bowl. A few grains stuck to the rim. I pick them up. A little slower.

15:30. The heaviest sun of the day. I stop at a drinks stall and buy iced tea. The ice cracks softly in the glass, and I stand there listening, one foot still planted on the road. Seven seconds. Then I go.

18:30. The last order: a bag with two chicken rice portions to an apartment on the third floor. A girl comes to the door, hair still damp, and says "thank you, miss". The smell of rice lifts out of the bag, and my stomach growls so loudly she laughs. So do I. Standing on the stairwell, I think about that pork chop at noon.

20:10. Home. I fry two eggs and eat them with reheated cold rice. Nothing worth mentioning. But I sit down, switch on the small lamp, and finish the bowl knowing I am eating.

Before sleep. Today I delivered dozens of meals to other people, and ate exactly one for myself. Not perfect. Still counts.

On a busy day like this one, sometimes you only gather a single moment like that. Some days, standing through ninety seconds at a red light gathers one more. That is enough.