The dawn of food and the relational grammar at the table. I used to eat on my own. Except on Sundays. I was left the prepared meal on the corner of the table near the window. The bottle with water before the circular emptiness of the glass. The crumbs on the tablecloth in the manner of a metaphysical sowing of bread. The others of the family had already left the table, the grownup males lying down for a nap, the women in the kitchen doing the washing up, drying, putting away the leftovers in the fridge. On Sundays, all together, in front of a lot of food, they would talk about clients, work and the do. I would stay silent.