It was in the middle of the summer. The weather was warm and humid like a hot breath, but really fickle. That day old friends had come from out of town. We’d found a pub that had opened up their sliding doors towards the street, and we sat there, somewhere between indoors and outdoors but with a roof over our heads. I’d selfishly taken the seat with the view of the outside. Behind you, I saw the clear day gradually turn into a thunderstorm that pulled and yanked the lush greenery of the trees outside like a mean stepsister. You sat in front of me, dark and silhouetted by the light behind you. Our (married) friends talked about something irrelevant but private that neither one of us could really participate in. I waited, and thought about old friends and friendships. Idly you played with the straw in your drink.