“Apparently
not.” She says with a hint of a smile around her lips and her
hands on the table. I cannot take my eyes off of them, her hands.
Back and forth, back and forth. She gestures a lot when she talks. I
mill a few more things in my mind before I decide to speak again. I
concentrate on the left hand, knocking the ashes off of a
Chesterfield king into the cracked overfilling ashtray. The right,
holding a heavy bottomed glass filled with tequila, not mixed with
anything. I notice her chipped black nail polish. A scar on the top
of her left hand with it’s slightly crooked pinkie. I stare into
my own glass of Gin and watch its contents as I swirl it around.
Seth's got his arms crossed and he’s fidgeting. He’ll get up and
pace around soon.