What can YOU say in six sentences?
Despite a table near the wall-to-ceiling window, we can see nothing outside this deserted, seaside café. The coal dark sky throws down rain like it’s trying to swamp the devil’s Galleon. Three drinks deep into our conversation, you fall silent as a naval prisoner of war who refuses to confess. When you rise from the table, and swerve toward the bar, I watch the bartender pretend not to watch you list. I recall the seven reasons why you’ve declined my previous proposals —each beginning with the female name of a hurricane. When you return to our table, with another drink in hand, you stand your ground and dryly declare, “Water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink.”