the wharf was, as per usual, covered in gibbering tourists. we'd walked to the end, relishing the sunshine, discovering jellyfish in the water between boats that clicked together in the breeze. i slanted my eyes at a tourist and she nodded; if i'd asked, she could probably have fed the thought to me in my own words.

by now, we can usually just skip actual conversation. after a decade and more of friendship, we communicate in a language of our own, steeped in meaning, comprised in large part by inside jokes and shared experiences.

this is lucky, because otherwise i'd have to explain myself when i ask her to order "the thing with the stuff" for me, or when i say that i was talking to whats-his-name about how satan called me a gazelle and wasn't that before the thing with the oatmeal, when i was living in the ugly fish house?