You’re sit­ting inside the local Timmies, when you can see the driz­zling rain com­ing down from the black sky through the win­dow. The work­ers are in the back where you can’t see them, but you can hear them talk about mind­less sub­jects, con­ver­sa­tion to pass the grave­yard shift. Soft, com­pla­cent music plays all around you, drown­ing out the silence but numb­ing you to sound. A group of four males in their late twen­ties sits at anoth­er table, there for a mid­night snack, dressed in their dark rain clothes. A cou­ple shares a table by the win­dow, both bare­ly talk­ing, sim­ply look­ing out­side.

There are three oth­er peo­ple at your square table, where the seats piv­ot on a pole and feel hard but com­fort­able. You feel at ease, as if you can say any­thing both in and out of char­ac­ter and not wor­ry about what oth­ers think. You relax enough to cachin­nate inclement­ly, to speak rib­ald mat­ters, to not speak at all. You let down your guard, some­thing that rarely hap­pens even in close com­pa­ny, but you feel vul­ner­a­ble but safe.

The con­ver­sa­tion is bal­anced and the pace is just right. You’re filled with jocun­di­ty and wish the feel­ing would­n’t stop as soon as you step back out­side into the rain. This sim­ple sit­u­a­tion has put you in good spir­its. You won­der if you’ll ever get to do this again and feel the same way. You hope that fate will place you here again in the future.

With your friends on a chilly fall night.