You turned your fork over with quiet grace. Crumbs traced, fell into tiny raked lines, golden. I took another sip of coffee. I turned to the window. These late nights, the pressure in my head, my left hand stained with ink, my eyes tired and stale, these late nights had to end. You smiled and tilted your head to watch our waitress ramble down the aisle. Her shoes gleamed in their own rigid, florescent loveliness.
