Massachusetts Avenue

I was handed the most beautifully created caramel skim latte and marvel at the lovely convergence of black and white into, well, caramel.

"It's changed since you found out," she says as she blows the steam rising from her takeaway cup of hot cider. She's sitting with her back to the window, oblivious to the mass of cars passing by the coffeeshop.

"Yep," I reply before taking the first sip from my pint glass (Pint glass! Of coffee! I love Central Square, I love coffee, concerts and Saturday evenings!).

"It's subtle, but the change is there. Someone who knows you, someone who's been reading for a long time? They can see the exact entry where it changes."

"The one after I found out," I offer.

"Yes. And you didn't write about finding out."

"Like I usually would." This latte is divinity in a glass.

"Exactly. Which is understandable, of course. Because that changes things."

"It does. It did, actually. Because you know I would have written about finding out shortly after finding out."

"You usually do." She blows more steam. I notice she had maybe taken two sips of her hot drink and then remember that she likes her hot drinks cooler than I.

"But by writing about finding out, I would be describing finding out and then that would give away more than I want to." I appreciate the fact that we can make references that would make no sense whatsoever to the uninitiated observers. Good friendship is composed of infinite obscure references.

"But by not writing about finding out, you're letting finding out affect what you let out. I don't blame you, I'd probably do the same thing. But I just noticed."

"I'm working on it. It's just hard. I'm used to knowing that I know the ones I know and I don't know the others. And then one of the others..."

"...becomes someone you know." Knowing nod.

"Exactly. And saying whatever about whatever suddenly becomes that much more difficult. Makes me wonder who else could be."

"How do you feel about that?"

"Torn."

"Much like Natalie?"

"Just like Natalie. I mean, I though it could happen, but I thought I'd feel differently about it."

"How so?"

"I thought I'd get answers."

"And you're not?" I arch my eyesbrows as I look across the table. "No, you're really not. So do you think you still will?"

I stare at the wall beside me. Mocha-colored wainscoting.

"And there," she says, taking a long sip of her now-tempered cider, "is the dilemma. You don't think you're going to learn anything new. But you don't want to think you won't. So you're just going with it and aren't going to stop anything."

I sip my latte silently for a few moments. "Part of me wishes I didn't know. Part of me is glad that I do. Part of me thinks that there's some reason why it feels like a big deal, but part of me thinks I should just write it off and be done with it."

She smiles.

"I know it sucks," she replies. "Change of subject. Lovely wall, isn't it? I've always love wainscoting, haven't you?"

I've never been a fan of it myself.