Three months ago, you choked on bread and tears in an Au Bon Pain while an old man mopped the floors beneath our lifted feet. But tonight, in this underground Boston bar, we sit chewing chatter and smoothly swallowing smiles. I order wine and you impulsively order beer and slowly our conversation rises and overlaps like the high tide waves of Coast Guard Beach in July. I'm in a rut, I tell you, in search of help. You are positive and encouraging and say exactly what I need to hear.
You are not in a rut. I have faith in you like I once had faith in God and in myself. I think success will find you like it still avoids me. Maybe one day you can introduce us. No, that would be too awkward. Just reserve me a ticket for your next show.
You are not in a rut. I have faith in you like I once had faith in God and in myself. I think success will find you like it still avoids me. Maybe one day you can introduce us. No, that would be too awkward. Just reserve me a ticket for your next show.
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