An addict waiting for their next hit.

“Sacrebleu! Mon fromage!” yelled a patron who had just walked in. Then he became the almost-patron who had just walked out. I wished I had the guts to be so bold. Gouda was a strong enough cheese for me. I turned to Dave across the table who looked like he was about to burst.

“What do you think that was about?” I asked.

“Probably the government,” Dave nodded sagely, “they always interfere with cheese…” he trailed off while winding his magnificent handlebar moustache. It was reputed to be the source of his never-ending lung capacity. He stopped winding his moustache as the jack-in-the-box in his mind sprang out, “Did I ever tell you about that time when I almost won a cheese rolling contest but at the last moment before the race started — wait, I’m getting ahead of myself, this one time my friends and I got hold of a dozen meter-wide wheels of gouda, so naturally the only thing we wanted to do with them was race them and the only place with any good challenge to it was a graveyard — what, you think down a hill would be more fun? You’re right, that’s where our starting line was — anyway, more obstacles means more skill, and…”

Dave continued to relate his cheese-y exploits while I sipped my coffee. He was one of those unique people you could find by proxy. Just look for the dazed and confused lying by the side of the road. In the wrong part of town, the posh side, I had found him with a grammarian or three hanging off his words like an addict looking for their next hit of the full stop. The rare times when Dave was silent were my favourite, especially with other people around. “No whey,” I stirred the whirlwind.

Basically, Dave was a good excuse to be alone in public.

I sighed. I had foolishly forgotten to ensure that I had enough coffee to last the storm. No one would dare come over to fill it. Someone dropped a ceramic mug on the floor. “Yeah!” Dave roared, his voice continuing to increase in volume and attracting the poor, guilty server’s attention. “That’s the sound they make when you knock ’em over!” He continued an animated exposition of his escape from “the government,” which in this case was poor old… what was his name? The sheriff, whoever that was. Of course, any escape made by Dave was temporary at best. He had even made local news in the next town over just by stopping at a street light on his way through.

“I wish you were more like him,” said a faint feminine voice I didn’t recognize.

“Pardon?” I had to yell, looking up at her unfamiliar face. Oh. It was the girl with the nose and the tea.

“Like him,” she tried her hardest, but I could barely hear her over Dave’s freight train of a sentence that didn’t stop for nobody. “Why can’t you just talk more?” she asked.

“Do you want my seat?”

She glared at me.

I shrugged, then presented her my empty mug. “Refill?”

She rolled her eyes and walked off. I wondered if her eyes would roll in a different direction than her feet.

I turned back to Dave and asked, “Why do you think she said that?”

He paused for just a bit longer than normal and looked mystified, “Who?”