Idea for a story: it involves you and I, sat in a café, perhaps, nothing out of the ordinary.  Your coffee is black and the light makes cracked reflections in its oily surface; mine is milky, covered in cream and palest grey.  I stir it, almost compulsively, with that little wooden stick you get with the paper napkins.  Yours is untouched.

We both lean back in our chairs, which is different from normal, and although the people around us are always interesting I’m noticing it.  I don’t know if you’re noticing it, I can’t tell what you notice.  I don’t read your mind.  Sometimes I forget that and – when you’re not around, never when you’re around – I have the audacity to try and speak for you.  It’s not true, I know that, but other people don’t.  And on occasions like this (concentrating on the woman with the toddler two seats away, and that stupid, stupid little stick) I remember it.  I can’t speak for you.

Anyway.  The story goes like this.

We sit there for a while, and I keep noticing things, like the fact that your collar is up and mine is down, almost compulsively down, and that your shoelace is undone and I don’t have shoelaces at all and the silence elongates between us, or should I say the lack of speaking.

After that, I grip the stick between my thumb and forefinger, lick it clean and put it down.  Oh for goodness’ sake.  Into my head pops something – I don’t know what yet, I haven’t worked it out, maybe it’s something to do with speed and velocity and Pythagoras, that’d be quite like me, or maybe it’d be some line of poetry, yes, maybe that’s it, maybe in my head all of a sudden all I can think of is Wordsworth and some deep male voice saying I wandered lonely as a cloud… I wandered lonely.  As a cloud.  I wandered.  Lonely as.  A cloud.  With all this different intonation that I have to think about and concentrate on.

You’re staring at me.  I might not be able to read your mind but I know at this point you’re staring at me.  And it occurs to me that Wordsworth is dead and you’re not, and you’re here.  Your mouth is slightly open, but when I meet your eye you close it again, like you were going to say something just now and thought better of it.  I wish you hadn’t.

“What’re you thinking?”

Two choices.  If I said it, you pick up your coffee and take a gulp and grimace slightly – I’m sorry, coming to this place was my idea.

“Nothing.”

“Really?”

“Yes.  Really.”

The other choice.  If you said it, I bite my lip and think of floating aloof o’er dale and hills.

“Nothing.”

You don’t say “Really?” because you know that irritates me.  I know I’m a hypocrite but hell.

There is a pause.

“I’m sorry,” you say, “for being quiet.”

“So am I,” I say.  You smile slightly and take another sip of coffee.  (I know mine’s going cold, I only got it so as to have something to hold.)

The gap across the table is as wide as I have ever known it.  I stretch my hand out, and your gaze flickers to it but you don’t reciprocate.  In the front of my brain, in front of coffee and little wooden sticks and Wordsworth and maybe even daffodils, I want you to touch me, even with a fingertip, or a kiss.

That’s my idea.  I liked it at the beginning, but I’m not sure I’m happy with the way it ends.