A Small Café in Paris
He looks at the glass. He looks at the waitress. Two miserable cubes float in an inch of water. Water from the melted ice. Water with floating black specks in it. He is afraid to ask for more ice. Fear keeps him from drinking the water. And watered-down Pepsi will not do. He drinks the water, despite his fear. He does not want watered-down Pepsi. He pours the Pepsi. The ice melts.
When Ali, Casey, and I were in college down in central Illinois, we lived in this great place just a block off campus. It was situated at the top of a hill overlooking the town smack dab in the middle of Greek Row, snuggled between the Beta and SAE houses—a modest, three-bedroom house with a front porch and back patio, and yard that made it ideal for barbecues and other themed or not themed parties.