One Hundred and Fourteen

There are no gestures in the dark. There’s just me, saying, “I’m handing you the lighter,” and you pluck the lighter from my hand and we smoke cigarettes with the lights out, and as we stare blindly around I think, there are no gestures in the dark – I like that, and I tell you and you seem to agree, so I immediately commit it to memory, knowing full well it’s pretentious bullshit.