There was that one restaurant—a café, really—that we used to frequent when we were students. I forget the name. But the waiter was blond and always wore bleu jeans. And looked like he just got out of the shower. I think he must’ve used olive oil on his hair because it never dried, even after sitting there for hours writing in the corner while he served me cup after cup of coffee. Waiting for you. Olive juice. You remember that old trick: I would mouth the words “olive juice” to you across the auditorium, and you always assumed I was declaring my love. Remember? Of course, you don’t. It’s been so long. So long ago. We had some good time, despite the misunderstandings. The misgivings. “Ms. Whatever-her-name.” I still sometimes think I catch something out of the corner of my eye: a movement, a flick, a quiver. Oh, Blanchot caught another mouse last night. Thankfully, it wasn’t in the house! But he left it stretched out as if in state on the walkway. I had to pick it up with a shovel and throw it over the fence. Someone else can take care of it. Damn cat. All the same: he’s the only connection I retain to you. He’s getting old. How long has it been? How long? Oh, why do I bother with it any more?