_HIM and ME, spitty-mouthed in their orange room, decide to get some air._ HIM: Wipe the cum off your face. ME: _[laughing]_ Fuck you. _They’re not going to wear underwear. It’s just a couple of tingly, pleasantly raw cocks behind denim; nothing else but the fall air and life is good. They walk, hand in hand, sometimes stepping on the sidewalk cracks, sometimes not._ _Some air turns into a cup and a sandwich. Can’t wait to hear the jingle of the glass door. The buzz of the cash flow. The slam of the dishes. The pop of the unexpected amidst the astonishingly familiar. Table five. The “terminator” table, because it’s halfway between the influence of the windows and the depth of the backroom shadows. Jeans-clad asses push down on plain old wooden chairs._ HIM: Damn, you have a nice ass. ME: Shut up! HIM: No, seriously, I— _Enter WAITRESS._ WAITRESS: Coffee? HIM: Yeah. ME: Yeah, thanks. WAITRESS: You boys want something to eat this fine morning? _And so the whole damn thing starts all over again._