It could be a shop floor. Or a factory. An industrial wreck.
But it's not. They have cheery seats and monkey faces. And free drinks. And us.

There is so much warmth at my table. My insides feel fuzzy and my cheeks glow. I can tell. They play music to which I mentally dance. I am wearing a straw hat and my heart on a sleeve. I am dancing around a tree, or a fire in the middle of the forest. The air is crackling with the enthusiasm of so many people.

There is affection and food and sweet concoctions that make their way to my head, slowing it to a point where everything feels huge and everything consumes me. There are random hugs and squeals. There is laughter that feels like being hugged in the cold.
There is us. At my table.

The bathrooms have nuts and bolts. Which is which. Which is either. Or none. We hop down the stairs with playful abandon, because we are chuffed and full and the trying week is now behind us.

It's not cold enough to wear a sweater but it's definitely cold enough to be hugged tightly.

We don't dance, but if we did now would be the perfect time.

The cane chairs are comfortable. The lights are yellow - my favourite kind. The liquids keep flowing and the food appears and disappears from the table in a flash. I am in an ideal place, a part of the conversation but not in a way great enough to be required to constantly contribute. 

People ask me about you, you know that already. They ask me about where you are and then they smile, drawing on some memory of you with them. A dinner, a meeting, something you said. There is a lot of warmth in this conversation. 

The stories that follow are stories that warrant posts in themselves. 

Far away and all that. Things I am not allowed to say. You know it all. 

I fell asleep in a sea of comfortable blankets, glowing from the night that had gone by. When I woke up, I woke up happy. 

You’re far away. In a crowded, expensive city with your shiny hair and your rapid conversations. What I remember most are your bright orange slippers and your silver toes.
You’re dying. You told me so.
There isn’t so much to say. We haven’t spoken in a long time. When I think of you, I don’t feel all that I would have liked to. We aren’t friends exactly but we could have been. We’d have gotten along like a house on fire, I just know it. There just wasn’t enough time. Is there ever?
In the brief time where our lives overlapped, you told me you wanted to be travel. You held out your atlas and crossed out India and laughed. I hope you travelled more after.
Distances feel longer when things aren’t quite the way we’d like them.
I just thought you should know that I wish you didn’t have to die. You said you’re prepared and I hope you’re right. Good luck and I’ll be thinking of you.

All my things are packed. The work day is over. From where I sit, I see people leaving, carrying lunch boxes and tubed newspapers. There's just one more day to go. The weekend, in its bright tempting glory, waits on the other side.

I am waiting for my friends to wrap things up, so we can walk to the train station together. It's a short walk, but it feels trying to walk it alone. Sometimes, we don't even talk to each other, we just trudge along in silence. But it's so much nicer than being silent by yourself.

The street lights will come on and we'll leave the building soon, to eat buttered bread with tea, collectively looking forward to the end of the week.