J is for Juxtaposition

Mr. Pink and Ms. Blue were sitting across from each other at a table, smiling. A charcuterie plate, some bread, and a few empty glasses arrayed between. Between the souse and the veal mousseline, a single kalamata olive sat, its pit staring up at the Mr. Pink and Ms. Blue like a silent, disembodied eye.

Mr. Pink and Ms. Blue both reached for that last, lonely olive. Their hands met in mid-air, hesitated. Their fingers intertwined for a moment, then pulled away

I would very much like to see you again.

That’s kind of you to say, but I don’t think that’s possible.

Certainly it is. Through God, all things are possible.

Certainly so, but there are some things that are improbable.

You’re saying you don’t think it’s likely.

I’m saying it’s not going to happen.

A bold claim. Are you psychic?

Just prescient.

How do you know we won’t see each other again?



Because because.

That’s not very–

Because we went to a bar that serves charcuterie plants and not one with dancing. Because they make the Old Fashioneds here with a sugar cube and soda water instead of with simple syrup. Because I have already stood up, and you are still sitting down.

A smile. Warm. Pleasant. Final.


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