intelligence and wit

I was on the patio of a coffee shop, the one where all the local artists come to see and be seen and write long flowing novels about their poetic rediscovery of religious epiphany, with someone I’ve known for a long time. He was smoking a cigarette, the gray little waves catching the light and reminding me of Kubrick for reasons utterly unrelated to the situation. damned cottonmouth smokers. He looked at me, blue under gold, and asked, “Well then, shall we be lonely together?” and I didn’t consider before replying, “I don’t see why not.” We’re not sure what we’re doing here. We’re sprawled in black netted chairs, he’s leaning on me, one arm draped over my lap, my arms on top of his. The sun went down an hour ago. “I don’t know if I’m in love with you.” he says. This is the culmination of a handful of parties, a thread running through all the conversation tapestry we’ve been weaving. I’ll sit with him when he’s present, and I’ll crash with him when the sun comes up in the morning. “Why not?” I tuck a curl of hair behind his ear and he lights another cigarette. I try to take a photograph of the quintessal smokers moment, that drag on camera, that american dream gesture of removing the fag from the mouth on camera to let smoke curl from the lips like a film noir fantasy. The lighting is right, but I fail. He can’t let it drift when I’m paying attention. “If I knew that, then I would know if I was in love with you or not.”