A Tapped House

by Sam Way

Friendliness misinterpreted leads to a strange guilt that I can’t seem to manage. I don’t think it’s subconscious vindictiveness so I keep talking anyway.
 
A 20-year-old boy notices from three tables down, over pints of beer and empty shot glasses. He gives me a thumbs-up. Later he’ll try to lure me back to north Philly, offering up Depeche Mode on vinyl and a leather jacket that smells of cigars. I’m told the scent makes it more badass.
 
Snow falls on the fire pits outside and a man dances to the music in his head. Two new friends in business suits shimmy their shoulders to music the rest of us can hear. My smile exposes itself even though I didn’t want to give them the satisfaction. I discovered their not-so-surreptitious competition but I couldn’t tell who was in the lead. I think it was the one that I wanted to lose.
 
Catch a cab home and the driver falls in love. “Do you eat a lot of Spanish food? You look Spanish.” I tell him to keep his eyes on the road. 1.5 million people in Philadelphia. 1,400 cab drivers. He asks me the odds of us meeting again but I’ve never been very good at math.
 
This morning I tried to interpret the footsteps left in the snow on my stoop.
Then I remembered that they were mine from last night.