It’s your favorite cafe. Chairs, couches, and tables are set around one big room. A high ceiling is surrounded by windows on two sides, and by concrete on the other two sides. It’s rectangular, which gives an illusion that the place is bigger than it really is. That’s why you like it, the openness hides you. There’s a big dining room table in the middle, made from a single slab of wood. The table is the centerpiece of the room, the length of it is perpendicular to the length of the room. It comforts you. The solid look and feel of it, the grooves and gashes worn into the top, and the warm feel of it make you feel safe. You always sit at one end, your back to the large window, occupying a third of the table. The chair to your right is occupied by your bags, and the one to the left is slightly pulled out and left empty. You never let anyone sit there, or take the chair. You say that it’s occupied. Books litter the table, and papers are strewn across them. Coffee rings highlight your favorite passages. Plates and silverware gather around you, but you long for a different kind of nourishment. You live for these encounters. It stirs something inside you. It’s what drives you to save a seat for me. Imagining all of these conversations, all of these musings that we share. Life is about the things that compel us, the people we know that make us arrange our words in a certain way. Like how you want me to be there, when I’m not. It’s at times like these, when you nervously rub your fingers against the table’s surface, that you realize that all the scars are my own. I’ve etched my words into the world, and the world caught fire.