Bambi Almendinger

The man raises his glass and looks at her. He speaks: 'This cup has a definite shape and you are mulled like the cider in it.' She raises her head and doesn't reply, but calculates the length of the table between them with her eyes. She says: 'The length of this table represents the abyss between us.' She mumbles it and he doesn't hear her. She takes a bite of the last mushroom on her plate and thinks of no one that she likes. She feels like saying this -- that there is no one that she likes, but it comes out: 'No one likes me.'
The man picks up his fork and knife, he scrapes them against his plate. He smiles big and speaks: 'This is the sound of our loneliness.' The waiter clears their table, the place is closing for the night. The three of them turn up their faces to the window -- outside the wind picks up. The waiter quietly says: 'It might rain.'