If I could have dinner with a fictional character, it would be a fictional character of me. This would be our dinner and conversation.

Dinner With Your Fictional Self

The waiter has just left, and the two of you—real Tom and story-Tom—regard each other with the kind of curiosity usually reserved for mirrors that talk back.

Story-Tom leans back, folds his hands over his stomach, and gives you a grin that looks suspiciously familiar.

“Funny thing,” Story-Tom says, “I’ve been living in your head for years, and this is the first time you’ve invited me to dinner.”

Real-Tom raises an eyebrow. “You’re usually busy narrating my life. I figured you deserved a break.”

Story-Tom chuckles—your chuckle, but with a little more gravel. “Narrating? I’m just trying to keep up. You’re the one who keeps giving me new material.”

The food arrives: salmon for Story-Tom, chicken for Real-Tom. Story-Tom thanks the waiter with a nod that feels practiced, like he’s been thanking people for decades and has perfected the art.

I watch him cut into his salmon. “So,” you say, “what’s it like being the fictional version of me?”

Story-Tom pauses, fork halfway to his mouth. “Honestly? Easier. I get to skip the boring parts. No bills, no errands, no waiting in line at the DMV. I get the highlights—the porch snake, the sunsets, the memories that matter.”

I laugh. “I wouldn’t mind skipping a few of those errands myself.”

Story-Tom leans forward, eyes warm. “But you wouldn’t skip the stories. That’s the difference. I’m built from them. You’re the one who lived them.”

For a moment, the café feels quieter. The fan hums. Someone clinks a glass at the bar.

Real-Tom sips his iced tea. “Do you ever disagree with how I write you?”

“Oh, constantly,” Story-Tom says. “You make me too noble sometimes. Too reflective. I’d like a few more bad decisions, maybe a scandal or two.”

“You’re welcome to them,” Real-Tom says. “I’ve had my share.”

Story-Tom laughs again—this time with genuine delight. “That’s why I like you. You’re honest about the mess.”

We both eat for a while, comfortable in the way only two versions of the same person can be. When the plates are cleared, Story-Tom looks out the window at the foothills turning blue in the dusk.

“You know,” Story Tom says softly, “you’ve done a good job. With the life. With the stories. With the way you keep showing up.”

Real Tom feels something warm settle in his chest. “Thanks,” you say. “I try.”

Story-Tom nods. “Keep writing me. I’m not done yet.”

And neither are you.

Guess who was stuck with the bill.