The Restaurant Where I'd Already Eaten Tonight

I was travelling for work, alone in a city I'd never visited, and I picked the restaurant off a map at random because it was near my hotel and looked warm. First time in the city, first time in the place, no reviews read, no expectations. And the moment I sat down, I had been here before, tonight, already.

I ordered without opening the menu. The words were just there — a dish I couldn't have known was on offer, described the way I'd describe a meal I'd eaten and enjoyed an hour ago. The waiter blinked, said 'the special, yes, good choice,' and I felt the small vertigo of a memory confirmed. When he brought the wine, I said, before he set it down, 'that's the red, I asked for the white,' and he stopped, checked his pad, and I was right — he had misheard, was carrying the wrong glass, hadn't realised yet. I corrected a mistake before he'd finished making it, because I remembered him making it.

The whole meal ran like this. I knew the couple at the next table would argue quietly and the woman would leave before dessert; she did. I knew the candle on my table would gutter and need relighting; it did. And near the end, mid-conversation with nobody, I braced — actually put my hand flat on the table and braced — three, two, one, and a plate smashed in the kitchen, a bright cascade of breakage behind the swing doors, exactly when I'd known it would, so that the waiter returning saw me already wincing at a sound that hadn't happened yet.