Everytime he began to feel angry or happy or sad some bizare tick in his brain thought, 'I wonder how I could turn this into a script.' maybe it was coping mechanism, maybe he was destined for greatest as a writer. It doesn't matter. He sat there, black coffee in hand, finished plate of food in front of him, not a word on chapped lips. She sat across from him, tight purple t-shirt highlighting her breasts. Jeans drawing the downward towards her hips. She was every inch the fey beauty that he once kissed. She looked up from her plate but he had seen the movement start so was feigning intrest in a painting on the wall by the time she looked at him. The silence was unbearable, she had always said that two people could have silences if they were comfortable together. In fact the comulsive need to talk usually indicated a lurking discomfort with the other person. That did little to calm him. This wasn't one of those silences. They hadn't seen each other for months, hadn't seen each other sober for longer and yet they had nothing to say. Their paths had divereged in a wood and now that they'd walked their paths for months and months they were to far away to speak. They were shouting just to be heard. He realized that you couldn't write the pain of this away. You wouldn't purge it with the page. The sadness here was the realization that he had changed, that she had changed and that they were not the people were made out on her parents couch. That didn't halt the longing, the didn't stop him from being utterly sure that if she showed even the tiniest spark of intrest he would have his fingers caressing her groin in the bathroom of this quaint little resturant. He realized this wasn't a healthy, typical sort of love but a love of days of yore. The vain hope that him inside her, against her, with her, would magiclly transport him back to that summer when all of life was beautiful. When he hadn't realized who he was, what he was, when he still beleived himself capable of loving her.
These were the words ringing loud and clear through the silence of that 17th street breakfast joint. His brethe picked up as he began to realize that the long he waited to say something the more weird and uncomfrotable but to break the silence now seemed impossible. He just wanted to reach across the table and kiss or even just lay out on the white lino table they ate at everything she was to him and everything she wanted of him. That's not how things are done. So he sat in silence and stared at the paintings on the wall.
"Are we finished here?" The waitress asked.
"Yes" he answered.