In dim darkness, romantic yet restless, they sat together across the corner of the little rectangular glass table. Felix was alternating between the nervousness of his thumb wiping condensed water off an ice-cold tumbler and the jitteriness of his pinkie fumbling for any semblance of rhythm in an obscure fusion beat lurking around in the bar. Felicia sat across, avoiding his eyes, at moments glancing at her glass or his turbulent pinkie.
'Why can't we just talk?' he asked with trepidation.
'Random stuff: politics, weather, sports, movies. About nothing.'
'I don't want it, Felix.'
'Why not? You always liked talking about nothing.'
'Are we always going to talk about nothing?'