HIM: I don’t have much time left. I’ve got to get to the airport. ME: I know. I’ll drop you off at the cafe. HIM: I’m going to pretend I don’t think that makes absolutely no sense whatsoever. ME: I’m going to pretend your pretending that is natural enough. HIM: Very well. Let’s go. _They go. ME drops HIM at the cafe. Exit ME._ Hmmm.... There’s the picture of beauty. _HIM is looking across the small space, the small, created space, through mirthful wraiths of smoke, over the tops of brimming cups, and he sees them sitting at a table by the window: the man has a gently grinning monkey face. He wears a thermal-long-johns shirt, dun white. His hair is rumpled. His eyes look a little sleepy and wide-awake. That is what it looks like to be relaxed. The woman has a big nose, not too big for her smiling face. She has a small, cute mole on her chin. Her fine, angular fingers flirt with a cigarette. That is what it looks like to be in love--when ebullience turns down the corners of the mouth in the kind of grin that comes before the next thing is said, when the next thing that is said will be the thing that makes the mouth open, teeth showing, laughter bubbling up and out into the eternal Fall! HIM might miss his flight. The airport is all the way across town. Who fucking cares?_