I sat at a small, round table in a dark corner of an empty bar. I would say that I sat on one side of it, but a circle only has one side. Nonetheless, I had the distinct feeling that there should be someone with me, across from me, looking directly into my eyes. Our faces would be lit by the small wax candle, in its little tin cup, which someone has placed between us in the center of the table. I love to think of it; you and I illuminated, as if by a small tendril of the sun that had broken through the earth below our feet and found us here, alone together in this empty room. With rapt fascination, we would observe our upturned shadows, our moon-like chins and our star-like eyes, our mountainous noses and the caverns of our open mouths. From opposite directions, our fingers could meet and lay parallel, each stroking the other and finally locking together. Arriving from opposite poles, our respective elements would combine. In your eyes, I would see myself, and within the reflected image of my eyes in yours I would find you again, and by means of this recursion we would be inside of each other endlessly.
But it was a small table, with only one side, and I remained there, alone.
An indistinct figure emerged from the darkness and hovered at the edge of the table. A pale hand placed a full glass near the rim, across from me, and then withdrew. Something smelled bitter and poisonous.
I opened my empty hand, and the glass drifted towards me.