Café Figaro

I am telling my friend that I think that I am not afraid of dying. It is the long debilitating illnesses that I fear. The indignity of not being able to control my bowels, the horrible withering away that seems to be inevitable. Our food arrives. She has quiche, and I an avocado salad. The men at the next table are speaking intently to each other. Their arms so close that the hairs on their arms are in­termingled. They look directly into each others eyes, sometimes at each other's lips. I expect them to kiss, and at one instant it seems they will, but they don't. I find that I am rooting them on, as if they are my home team. I want them to go for it. But they stop, and I am left frustrated and confused. My friend is telling me that it is natural to feel the anxiety and anger I am experi­encing. I tell her I am hopeful, too. I am living my life as if there is no end. What I don't say is that I am just waiting.