Nights Ago in a Cafe (Cambridge, 1982)

Victor, who is an old "("old in the sense that he is much older than I) friend, is writing a play. I sip my ice-coffee and look beyond him to the street as he describes the contents of his unfinished script. The street is barren. A car rolls by now and then. A light flickers in the college house across the street. My attention flickers there for a moment too. Then it shifts from the night to the shadows of Victor's face.

He is a better listener than I. He gazes into my eyes--a better gazer than I. I look down, stir my coffee with a straw. I want so much to cry, so much to tell him. I have changed so much. He still listens, gazes. I stir my coffee more, take an occasional sip (I almost wrote "slip"). I want it all to last. Somehow this moment comforts me. He also drinks slowly, sharing my desire to make the coffee and the moment last. Finally, I sigh, wipe a moist eye with his napkin (mine dropped to the floor earlier), and look up. His eyes are still right there, fixed intently on mine. And his response? With chin in one hand, glass in the other: "I could use all this in my play." This is, of course, hardly the answer I expected, but I smile--because how can I cry here in front of him? He knows I want to. Besides, why make a scene here at Cafe Pamplona?

He clears his throat and takes his turn: His ex-wife lives in Panama City with her new husband. He used to awake in the morning to find photos of naked "parts" (from "really dirty magazines") in his bathrobe pockets--oh, this was when he lived with his wife and another couple in a big old house. He claims he still doesn't know who placed those "parts" in his pockets. Also, he hasn't gotten to "that point" with his new female friend, and if and when he ever will, he doesn't know.

I notice a button missing on his jacket--just like last year. His shirt sleeve is ripped. Well, you know, he lives alone.

God, it got dark so fast. The coffee is long gone. The conversation is exhausted, and so are we. He dips into his pockets and carefully selects two dimes to leave for the tip.