'Reed Richards'

Calloused fingers softening from an absence. Tracing the rim of the glass; I am waiting for the foams to subside. We all slowly lighten up a bit, breaking away from our respective inertias. Seems that we've been needing to read, even after so long. We're studying (again) each other's expressions. Reacting, to each other's stories. It feels strange to be seated again side by side with my friends. A whole table of them, all the way from a decade ago; a few, for even longer than that. Have we been reading each other correctly so far? I'm cracking up over the minutest detail, any one that amuses me. I am bumming cigarette after cigarette (with prudently timed breaks in between); we take turns emptying out the jugs and jugs of beer into each other's cups. Sweating with condensation, reflecting the palm face of hands indicating No! No! No! Thank you, that's enough for me tonight. We take our turns to ignore our friends, smiling as we continue to pour into the night. How have I been? I've been having this friggin' dry cough that seems to act up the moment I sweat. I down a bit of my beer and cough again from the effects of the gas rising up within me. I tell my story of how my mother is toying with the idea of matchmaking me and a few of them break into laughter (all of us are totally oblivious to how loud we are). Good for you! they say as one pats my back and another nudges me, almost bruising my arm with his elbow. Nah, it won't happen I say, but I never go on to explain why. Here, cheers man, I say instead, to no one in particular with my cup raised, and everybody joins in, glasses clinking clinking clinking clinking clinking clinking clinking in celebration of our reunion.

Not one toast the whole night.

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