“We’re a drink culture”
My food comes, and I eat it while the conversation ebbs and flows around me. The subject changes every few minutes, after a lull, or as someone wanders in or leaves. Being the one stranger in the room doesn’t specifically exclude me from the chat. I make eye contact from time to time, to smile at a joke, cock an eyebrow, or nod in assent. One fellow punctuates a conversational point with a practiced flick of cigarette ash into the fireplace.
“Passing on the Right”
Leaned over, in the rain, with the bike unsettled by the bridge, there’s no way I’m stroking the brake. I literally squeeze through the gap, brushing the drainpipe with my left shoulder, “brushing” him a little harder with the CBR’s muffler. When I look back, I’m relieved to see that he’s still on his wheels.