On Friendship, Free Rides, and the Interrogation of Chicken

I met Eve over fourteen years ago at a church I used to attend in Houston.

The pastor and I worked out at the same gym. One day, in a moment of what I can only assume was optimism on his part, he invited me to a service. I went. Then I kept going. That’s where I met Eve.

Eve was… noticeable.

Friendly. Outgoing. The sort of person who doesn’t enter a room so much as arrive in it.

At the time, she didn’t have transportation, so the pastor asked if I could give her a ride home one day. I did. We talked. We discovered we were the same age, which is always a promising start to a friendship.

And so it began.

Now, Eve doesn’t make friends easily. She has a heart of gold, but you have to chip through a fairly substantial outer layer of loud, often obnoxious behavior to get to it.

I, on the other hand, also don’t make friends easily. You have to get past my particular brand of quirky, occasionally obnoxious exterior to find my better intentions underneath.

So really, we were perfectly matched. Like two slightly dented lids that somehow fit the same jar.

Even after we both drifted away from that church, we stayed in touch. Texts. Calls. The occasional lunch.

Ah yes. Lunch.

This is where things take a turn.

Going out to eat with Eve is not dining. It is an event. Possibly one requiring permits.

Menus are not read. They are investigated. The wait staff—poor, unsuspecting souls—are immediately recruited into what can only be described as a full-scale inquiry.

“What kind of meat is this?”

“Where is it sourced?”

“How is it seasoned?”

“What exactly does ‘grilled’ mean in this context?”

At one point, I half expected her to request the chef’s résumé and a sample of his work history.

Meanwhile, I’m sitting there trying to make eye contact with the server that says, I am so sorry. I will tip accordingly.

Because yes—most of the time, I’m paying. Which I don’t actually mind. My husband does, but he is not present during The Great Chicken Interrogation of Table Twelve, so his opinion, while noted, is not immediately helpful.

What I do mind is the aftermath.

After the questions have been asked, answered, clarified, re-clarified, and possibly notarized, the food arrives.

And then—something is wrong.

Too salty. Too dry. Not as described. Not as imagined. Not aligned with expectations established during the pre-meal deposition.

Half the time it goes back.

The other half, she simply… doesn’t eat.

After twenty minutes of questions… she decided not to eat.

So there I am, eating my meal, while she watches. Not judging, exactly. But observing. Like I’m part of a study.

At this point, it is no longer lunch. It is a performance piece, and I am the only one who didn’t realize I was auditioning.

So, the last time, I tried to be clever.

“Let’s just get coffee or tea,” I said. “Something simple.”

She agreed. She chose the location.

A mall.

Now, I would like to pause here and say that I do not do malls. I don’t enjoy malls. I don’t tolerate malls. Malls are loud, crowded, chaotic places where my entire nervous system files a formal complaint within the first three minutes.

But I went.

I put on my big girl panties and marched into that mall like a woman fulfilling a social obligation she would later question deeply.

And somehow… she still wasn’t happy.

At this point, one must begin to consider the possibility that the problem is not the venue. Or the menu. Or the preparation of the chicken.

At some point, you have to ask yourself: Why am I doing this?

I don’t have a large circle of friends. Never have. So when I find one, I tend to hold on. Possibly longer than is advisable. Possibly past the point where common sense would quietly tap me on the shoulder and suggest an exit strategy.

But even I have limits.

And this—this has become too much.

Too exhausting. Too complicated. Too likely to involve a twenty-minute discussion about poultry.

There was no dramatic ending. No slammed doors. No final speech delivered under a spotlight.

Just a quiet realization that perhaps this particular chapter has run its course.

Eve is still Eve. Loud. Complicated. Generous-hearted under all the layers.

And I am still me. A person who would like, on occasion, to eat a meal in peace without needing to issue hazard pay to the wait staff.

Sometimes friendships end not with a bang, but with a deeply felt desire to never again discuss the life story of a chicken before consuming it.

And honestly?

That feels like a perfectly reasonable place to stop.