We find ourselves in chairs comfortable, near enough to feel his knees, his breath. We watch one another, with eyes full of all the faces aside from the one before us. But still, we change the scene, and draw our mouths up towards eyes trying to uncrack stiff faces so that something, anything, will happen. Until, the waiter arrives. And they inform me they can only offer me a salad, as if my small neck could extend to the tallest branch, grazing on the tree that had grown from this table.
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