Perhaps it would be only right, my thoughts shot at me later, to at least sit and partake of some Chinese.
Lonely souls, full of goodness, traces of hurt, can only participate in the social activity of eating so many times in solitude.
When else is he alone? Perhpas he enjoys people watching, sitting in his own silence.

Perhaps.

But he once asked me after a rather enthralling lecture of British Literature whether I would go out to dinner. The manner was respectful, reflecting his character predictably. Yet he asked for more than I wished, rather an abrubt invatation as we had never spoken more than miniature conversations at a time. Despite a clear decline on such a official occasion, I suggested we may sometime share a smoothie in the pavillion- in my eyes a much more casual "expectation free" event.
And yet I still feel a pang of sorrow, mercy, though I could not define what for the numerous times I spot him at his lonely table, partaking of nourishment, observing the action of oblivious flitting souls.
We may meet eyes from a distance and smile, not different from the days of British Literature.