You look at me,
I think I am going to skip dinner with you and your sister tonight.
I reply the usual courteous response, which you're used to, then eyes matching, the true conversation begins.
Yours say, I'm staying home, ordering Sushi and solitude, while you and your crabby self take to the streets and entertain the masses.
Mine reply, I know. Have a lovely time, but tell me, what does my face look like when I've bitten off more than I can chew?
Yours: Listen chipmunk, later on I'll show you the rather large rock in central park which you are free to wedge yourself beneath, just until you get out of this mood funk you are in.
The smile,
the back of my head, the door closes.
Ocular dialog, this may explain the insomnia.

I'm on the other coast, the House Guest Coast, at least that's what it's been for the last four years. This is the one you've never met, and I've swung into my usual house guest-mode. You met it with full force. Don't go there chipmunk, because if time is, as we've read, as tangible as matter, I do not wish this house to be filled with your good intentions.