每日壹句（二十七）

That's me.Nice Guy Clay.

Would she still say that if she heard these tapes?

I head to the back of Monet's,toward the closed door that leads to the patio.Along the way,tables full of people stretch their legs or tilt back their chairs to form an obstacle course that begs me to spill my drink.

A drop of warm coffee siills onto my finger.I watch it slide across my knuckles and drip to the floor.I rub the toe of my shoe over the spot till it disappears.And I recall,earlier today,watching a slip of paper fall outside the shoe store.