The eyes touch upon all, then each of my fingers curl to the count, and eyes come back to you. Everything special about you has become someone else living room wallpaper, but then I return the gaze and feel almost mad, fumbling for the number of the dusty niche from where you fell from. Box number twelve, in the B row, and my clumsiness a.k.a history shook you out and onto the floor where I stare. I look hard, and away, and then back again, forgetting to smile because I am so perplexed. You say my name, and I then say all of yours. There is nothing very good about reading your place card. The act will leave my responses slow, for no real reason.