Dinner with father

She's been thinking about this bread for three years. Three years. It had been that long since she'd seen her father. Circumstance, space- they both give way to time. Now here they are. Sitting across the same table in a corner booth, his back to the wall. He hates anyone coming up from behind him. Makes him nervous, he says. She inhales slice after slice of hot, chewy, melt in your mouth fresh baguette, knowing she'll pay for it later. Gluten intolerant or at least that what she believes after reading that book and listening to that pod cast. It's a convenient excuse, either way, keeps her mindful of all the carbs she eats. Stupid, she thinks, but at this point she'd tried every other fad diet and hormonal rebalancing pill she could get her hands on. The bread just feels right. Good. Like a comforting hug, slathered in ripe extra extra virgin olive oil and salt.
She'll just order a salad for dinner. That makes it all worthwhile, right? With dressing on the side. And she'll walk home. Save herself from the awkward car ride with him, that moment in her driveway when both of them sit in silence then speak over each other trying to find proundities in their last exchange. Make up for the last three years of silence. Every single time. The long, painful good night.
Maybe they sell this by the loaf, she thinks to herself. I could always cut it in half and freeze it.