Rationalists, like Spinoza.

Sunday mornings: hot coffee and a muffin from the Eastside bakery. The table is decoupaged with cut-out images by some famous fifteenth century painter. I’m in yellow, with my brown leather satchel, holding onto a ceramic mug about the size of a Coke bottle. Sammy’s hand is in my free one—although it isn’t free anymore.
There’s a dog in the ally, facing the window we look out of. He looks like a swimer, but I suspect he’s really no good at what he’s made for. He sits and waits for the girl with dyed red hair to order her Chai, or whatever.
I watch him pant and wag his tail with calm adore.
She pays no attention.
He isn’t even hers.

Sammy and I sit here, as usual, in silence. The stool he’s chosen is closer to the floor then mine.
And when he looks up from the illustrations and takes a small corner of the blueberry muffin, I always expect our eye contact to be more intimate.
But I guess his kind of intimacy is more or less in the silence.

We’ve known each other for a little over two year now and still it kills me when he begs with out using words. Those marbley eyes-- patient yet indifferent-- ask only for acquiescence, but I'm not into giving in anymore.
I'm done.
He can have the muffin.