I’m waiting for an old friend, a tall skinny dude with short cropped grey hair and a long-drawn-out face like a tragedy mask pulled down from the chin.  I am sitting in a restaurant – a corner hole in the wall, shaped like a piece of cake with white fifties Formica counter tops running the length. The chairs are bolted to the floor cushioned with red puffy faux leather. They squeak when  swivel. I wait.  I never know if he’ll show. Is he worth the wait?

 Finally, he walks into the slice of time, swaying with slumping shoulders, wearing a long dark wool coat hanging down to his knees.  He falls beside me. I say you should really give me your phone number so I can call you and arrange meetings rather than this wait and hope game we play.  I get tired. He shrugs. Puts his head down. I didn’t mean to scold?  He’s a past I need. A measure to know how far I’ve come.

We sit at the counter. More coffee, please. I say, do you wanna go skiing?  Friday night?  Only problem, many drunk kids on the hill, I add. He says, he doesn’t drink.  I say the town is very busy on weekends. Accommodation short. He says he knows a guy. I nod. He shrugs.  He says, he has a meeting.  Do I want to join? Sure, I’ve got nothing better to do. We put the slippery hill on hold.

We go to another restaurant.  Green and pink neon swirling letters with no organization.  We move to a round half circle booth, made for twelve. Only four shows. Slick brown faux leather this time. What is the arrangement, I think. On the reclaimed wood table, stand glasses half full with melting cubes. Wet circles in no pattern. I strain to  understand. Sounds like baby gaga.  Naiveté? They laugh. Heads bobble. Facial wrinkles. Crows slash faces.

They are eating something bloody, red puddles on plates.  One show, Sherry or Shirley, points to a raw picture with a long shiny nail. I say wow that’s too much. I don’t eat red meat. She rubs her belly and smiles.  I return a grin and order, but it’s only half. Did I misunderstand?   Still too much. They keep talking. I only listen. They continue to laugh.

I want to join, eager to make friends. I mimic their noises. Conversation dies. The table loses energy. I hear ice reforming into blocks. A grey tattered face, stands and says that’s not funny. I finally understand. Shirley or Sherry says she’ll pay for the show. The table evaporates like rings on the table.

I put my head down. Hard fluorescent gum under the table. When I look up, the group is gone.  What did I say? I stopped the laughter.  I killed the language. I walk out, staring at my shoe tops. My past deserts me. Solo skiing isn’t fun, but he knows a guy.