He turns to me and spouts obscenities, like how much plastic pipes go for downtown versus alder shavings on the outskirts. I can’t take it anymore and, trying to stay polite, I say, “What good is it to you to know all these prices?” He… no, he doesn’t lose his temper. He just tells me, “You forget who you’re talking to, young man. I’m twice your age. You should show respect for my life experience,”—all with a gurgle, a sniffle. He talks and rubs something he dug out of the inner corner of his eye between his fingers. He talks and shows me who’s daddy around here. That’s how it seems to me.

The indignation inside me drops below the dew point. Meaning, it’s my turn to drench him. I calmly reply, “And in what units is life experience measured, could you tell me?” — “What a silly question! Do you even know? Can you even guess?” — “It seems to me that only the most narrow-minded person would measure life experience in hours, in years… in seconds! As for what it Should be measured in—that’s a question I’ll answer for you. Later.”

With that, I walk out of the cafe, because I’ve said all I could. Maybe Dopfelheimer is still frozen, sitting in the cafe in the same pose I left him in. My last sentence just can’t get through his brain. A blunt question keeps popping up: “What type of good is that?” Life experience is hard to consume.

–

You're sitting lotus-style again. You’re wearing that dress the wind can play with, but I can’t. You’re coming down from the roof's peak to its edge, looking down, like there's more down there than up here.

Below, above, between us. More, less, enough. How much can you take?