Nervous laughter. Nervous laughter. Keep talking to fill the electrified space there over the coffee table, shove words into it and through it to put something up as a shield from that face. These sounds are all apologies for something I have not done, and they are slamming into you, falling back helpless, just piling up at your feet like so many wasted minutes I've spent wondering. All to just teeter on the top of the carcasses of syllables on tip-toe, waving and yelling only slip on the glassy surface of your eyes and tumble back down to where I am, here, yards away, just laughing and chattering and picking at my cuticles. Nervous twitches. Nervous glances. Not a thing.