Dangling Conversation

We're sitting cross-legged on opposite sides of my coffee table. Andrew's asked again. I'm eating canned mandarins; he's finishing pea soup. There's an unopened bottle of whiskey on the table. Andrew assures me he isn't an alcoholic. Another silence passes.

"So you don't write every day just because our teachers told you to?" he says. Andrew thinks being free of expectations makes him free.

He doesn't want to open the whiskey, so I twist the cap. He pours himself a drink and pauses.

"Pour," I say but watch him drink.

He pours himself another.

"Tomorrow is another day. We start off as blank slates again," he says. "Who knows what will happen?" I don't bother mentioning that Mom is a psychologist, Dad a philosopher. Andrew merely means I should let alcohol control my actions and forget about the rest. I'm amused by his mode of persuasion, because I'm certain he has no idea about the tabula rasa.

Andrew watches as I circle a finger around the rim of my glass, pretending to consider the proposal hanging between us. He watches, surprised, as I drain it in two gulps. He pours me another, but I pour it into his glass.

"You don't ever stop thinking, do you?" he says.

"No," I say, knowing we're always talking about different things. "I never do."

Katya Cummins graduated with dual degrees in English and Creative Writing from the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign.  Her work has appeared at InsideHigherEd or is forthcoming in Prick of the Spindle.