They sit and meet at the same table - the one to the far right (I mean left) in the corner of the diner.
They've smoked silk-cuts for twenty years.
Twenty year smoke lounges comfortably in the fabric of these stools.
Twenty year smoke wanders freely in the air that surrounds
An atmosphere heavy with recycled bottles, music and conversation.
They order another round. Same drinks they've drunk for twenty years.
I hear them. I hear you.
They talk about their history whilst we talk about our history and outside history is being made.
Outside, it is dark but busy with people entering and leaving shop fronts with neon lights and florescent tubes.
Inside, it is dark but busy with people entering and leaving voices which illuminate the space around me, you, us, them.
Voices that speak of premature policy, credit card junkies, the tragedy of Tokyo Rose and cake.
Pictures, ideas, calenders and memories that speak when I speak to you and I.
I walk past their table.
He puts on his coat, pays the bill and takes one last look around. She exits to the bathroom.
The clinking of glasses and muttering of voices.
Track two plays and we let The Chiffons take our soul.
I return, she returns and they leave to go outside amongst neon lights.
We're inside talking about them.
Inside, I’m talking about you.
They leave their mark behind. Their circular imprints.
Elbow wearage, greasy stains, spilt liquid, floating ash.
Ready for the next crowd.
I pull the stool aside and see her imprint.