we walked through black shadows and black grasses; not counting steps, not counting pebbles. the enormous blackness roofed us, foaming with cotton clouds, their tips slightly grayed like the fur of some rabbits. everything was illuminated. it outweighed my psychology and english textbooks, and i thought, should i study, should i not, then i told myself, eat. so we walked ourselves again, lost: dempsey hill was a concrete labyrinth, our bodies stranded among large cars and large barks. around the corner, undiscovered, across an empty field of short, damp leaves: ps cafe, ps like what you would find at the bottom of a letter of unfinished thoughts. i sat myself on wooden bench and told him, i think would like some pasta. the waiter nodded and dissolved into the lights, we were left in darkness, but i could see the moon and the candle inside the glass jar of probably apple juice, or apple perfume, or apple jam. i would like to capture this, i thought. i fixed my eyes at one point in the blank space, far behind the jar so that they could not focus and i would remember that frame forever.
i had another pasta the previous night, and i could not help remembering the tingle of it: much better, less meaty but more flavourful, clams and pasta with wine sauce. i told him, yours looked more appetising. and then he stopped doing what he did, his fork hanging in still air, he glanced for a second and smiled. let's swap, he said. do you not mind, i said. because it was not my intention at all. he silenced me by lifting my big plate and putting his in front of me. so i had a nice meal of seabass and rice that night, which was so fine it tickled my taste buds.
and then of course, conversations peppered with sterling laughs and thoughts and interests.
we rode a cab home, feeling full inside and out.