With your guts on the ground, you give experience a bad name. But underneath the table your hand is massaging my leg, and I’m starting to suspect that you are heavy with potential. I chew the rim of my cup and tongue the wet paper, thinking about how love for potential alone is just eagerness to live in the future, and that is how you started a tally in my head, two months ago, of the different ways I can be disappointed in myself. But I like this place for espresso served in mugs that don’t match. Tables made out of tiles remind me of the days after you sold all your furniture, when we ate our meals on your kitchen floor, and it was okay not to anticipate us going anywhere. You like the tables too. They’re something you can run your fingers between and smooth out, like mortar divisions borne through hungry white knuckles.
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