"This . . . this thing . . . it's supposed to be my enthusiasm."

Risa looked bored. "Which?"

"This. This here." I was holding the utensil not the way you're supposed to hold such a utensil. I balanced it neatly on my finger tip. It rocked a little this way and that. I leered over the shiny silver object at her.

"It's a spoon," said Risa and shrugged.

"I call it my enthusiasm."

"Fine." She raised one eyebrow, and took a sip from her coffee. She waited. "It's your enthusiasm, John."

"Good. Glad we got that straight, then." I let the spoon fall onto the table next to my empty demi-tasse. It made a dull thud against the dark wood of the table. It wasn't the sound you would think a spoon would make when falling against a wooden table. Much more like what a rock might sound like. Yes, a rock. Or maybe nailclippers.

Outside the window of the cafe were headlights racing past us. These lights, they scurried like fireflies behind the semi-reflective glint of this glass, which I was in. And from the glass, I stared back at myself while Risa's patience tapped fervently on her coffee cup.

"You could just say you don't want to go, you know."

"I don't want to go?" It was a question. But I meant it like a statement. It was directed at her reflection, not her.

"Well you certainly act that way."

I turned away from the glass. Directed my eyes at her. Risa, brown leather jacket, dark red hair, scent like lavender, manicured fingers. Risa, nonplussed.

"I . . . I will go." I said. "Of course I will go. And those people, those friends of yours, will be so . . . welcoming, I'm sure. And we shall have a lovely time."

"Right," she said. "Let's go."

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