It was as if the three of us were not in the same room, not sitting in the same booth at all. Instead of having a conversation over slowly cooling french fries, we had three completely independent monologues, each vaguely related to the other like different scenes in the same play.
Everyone was rubbed raw, emotions worn outwardly. Mine, because I find a week of continual excitement and planning the future to be taxing, and now a weekend of inactivity looms, all my plans spun out into long golden strings of hope that temporarily have no more flax to feed them. Theirs, I do not know, but can only assume due to a long string of fight-fuck-fight-fuck that tires even me and I am only an observer.
Intruding upon our three discrete bubbles of consciousness roughly pressing against each other, a coarse presence, our neighbor at a nearby table. The very archetype of macho, crudely shouting orders and thrusting himself into our fragile triumvirate. "What a huge cock he is," I declare, and it is this thought that temporarily binds us together, allies against a common foe. When he leaves, our merged auras dissociate, and we are again left to fend for ourselves.