SOLO

Nothing meant, everything implied, and that doesn’t imply assumption but only just what is implied: Implication. Conversations don’t need glasses or wine and a table’s only for one who doesn’t know where he should put his hands; pockets hide incompetent gesticulation, longer hair shows lesser face and that’s lesser space you could be seen sweating out of. Glasses are meant to come in cheap, for photo chromatic acts against utility, and the source of light isn’t always the moon or a light-bulb or a crystal chandelier: There do exist sub-level sources and the sun could be one if not distinctly seen.

A conversation doesn’t necessarily call for two or more parties.

“How about a beer?”

“You drink?”

“You don’t?”

A chair’s occupied while another’s let free, a physical demonstration of equilibrium. The beer order was never public and hence was never in the same vicinity as ‘confusing’.

“You should wear an eye-patch.”

“I was thinking lilac.”

“Beige”, he stressed. “Quit the knee-jerk.”

“More ankle and shin…”

“…and calf muscle.”

“And calf muscle, yeah.”

The moment of publicizing personal interest came around, the argument being necessity rather than roast & ground or human-made.

“Caffeine”, I shook my head. “I’m a little Stuart there.”

“Harry Tuttle”, he said, humming the ‘Brazil’ tune.

“Nah, it’s kind of more Daniel Dunne.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“What’re you talking about?”

“Blow some smoke”, he said. “I’d get you that.”

“It’s the fire that’s missing”, I said. “Not the smoke.”

And he blew some himself, although I’ve never seen him take in any. The meandering prospect of time limit crashes caught up with both, a second in between.

“Monday night”, he said, getting there first.

“Morning to come.”

“What’s the music tell you?”

“Jazz”, I said. “Or wait… Plantation blues.”

“You’re extinct.”

“And you’re not my woman.”

I stood up, watered myself with both the glasses, straightened his chair, set my hair right, laughed at his and walked my way in as opposed to an outside cliché.