We don’t have to agree on everything, but let’s conclude we both like chicken empanadas and will eat them when given the opportunity. It’s not often enough that we are confronted with a flaky crust; we take this challenge on willingly, knowing these efforts enhance the enjoyment of flavorful chicken.
Yesterday we had empanadas with coffee and you told me my bar stool is ugly but functional.
Meat hangs from the ceiling, which makes me either pretentious or refined; I haven’t decided. It hangs from the ceiling, giving the room a look. We can’t decide if it’s a good look, but it’s a look all the same. There’s wine here– rows and rows of it. We normally just watch it, nowadays. We don’t normally have it the way we did last night, drinking row, after interminable row, throwing the empty bottles at one another and breaking into song. Last night was different, but we’re eating at the moment. There’s knocking at the door and you get up and let another man in. He walks up with a bottle of wine in his hand. He looks at the wall with last night’s broken bottles and decides the wall can use some more broken bottles. An eerie look overtakes all of us for a second; we laugh and then we start drinking.
This season, like the last season, we will have chicken empanadas, coffee, and wine. We will sit by the warmth of a fire. We’ll listen to you insult my bar stool, we’ll break into songs, we’ll throw bottles. Then we will get past the winter solstice so that the fire by us dims making way for the greater fire overhead.