Two drinks will condense between us. The table will be round or else square, wooden or else laminate to look like wood where the edges will be warped and coming unglued, and the lighting will sprout too low from the ceiling, punched tin in the shape of a cone, the bulb burning too bright so we can feel its warmth and the light that shines from it will highlight everything that the future holds for my face. Which is not pretty.
At some point if all goes well I will wonder about your face. Try to figure out the stories within it, the things you are not telling over this table, since what is real, what is most accurate and most appealing, will not be in the funny anecdotes, will not be in the suave attempts at appearing articulate. All witticisms aside, despite the loudness of my laugh which I assure you is always sincere; it’s the cards you're holding that I want. I care nothing about what is on the table, what is laid out between drinks. I want the ability to see numbers through paper, to peer into your personal history, rummage through the files of your life. I want the incidents, the stories, I want to take them and file them away for later use where I will rewrite them, making them my own. Worth the cost of the beer, which you will never offer to pay for.
