At my right sat an old white envelope with my name scrawled out in my mother's handwriting. It was old paper. So old it looked like linnen. There across from me at a table. She was probably 21 or so. Blonde. Abercrombie sweatshirt. Half eaten slice of pecan pie. Her belt fastened on the side of her hip. A statement. A sideways glance. Sitting with her. Two women. Accents and overweight. Probably smokers. And next to her hip. A baby in a padded chair. Crying. She deftly screwed a bottle top on and complained about the crying. Pulled out a new razr cell phone. Stuck the bottle in the baby's mouth. After the call ended she complained more about the baby and talked to it as if to tell it: you are already ungrateful. Give the baby your fucking tit you stupid bitch. I felt myself saying it angrily. This is a plague. No contact. No touching. Desparate contact. Desparate touching. Children. Mirrors. Reminders. Little yellow notes posted. This is the world you have made clean. You have sacrilized touch. It is an indestructable idol. Give the baby your fucking tit. Because I can't feel you even if you are so close. Its always some piece of plastic or rubber. And when it doesn't work. Avoidance. Stupid Questions. Ingratitude. Somebody just touch me thats all. Is that so dangerous a request? Give me diseases. I'd rather contract them than make them up myself. The envelope rustles. The overhead fans rattle. Silence. Its listening. I can only think when its quiet. Because when I talk. Nobody really listens. Only silence. Its always listening. The whole cold empty universe is hearing us. Feeling our warmth. Circles can't be complete without what's incomplete. This neverending imperfection. Silence. My wadded napkin looks like linnen. I feel my mother's handwriting. Dissolving every moment. Into thin air. Slowly.