Hands buzzing in midair. Eyes like fireflies. A forest of unspoken chatter. I looked everywhere at once and saw impossibly little. A shadowy shape moved in my direction until a canned light overhead illuminated his words. “… for you to arrive, but then, J., you know J. from the picnic last week, he ordered a round anyways and I’m sure you don’t mind.” Turning away with a summoning gesture he was silent again. I followed. We move through each conversation – “… is pregnant, but there’s no way it …” – with a conspicuous lack of grace – “… he doesn’t get us, that’s the point… ” – until – “… he is. Hey you made it. Finally. Yeah, finally…drink’s for you.” Buzzing. Fireflies. One evening each month in a forest of unspoken chatter.