Sunday afternoon and the light lasts an hour but the coffee many more. As people traded, one after another, on the tables around us, we sorted through the definitions of our beings. Tell me about yourself. But there is no answer, to such a non-question. Choose your colors, paint your picture, this is the moment when your slate is clean. Your answers rehearsed, you've been practicing your social resume for months, they sound decent enough. You applaud yourself your ability to smile that genuine smile, blissfully ignorant of what lies behind it. Cold hands grow warm along the body of another, things begin that were not, before.
I don't know, I said later, on the couch with the roommate. I don't know, she replied. I don't know is not no. I don't know is not nothing.
Perhaps that, by default, makes it something.
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