I sit at the table, lit by dim candles, stern hands around a short black like warming mittens. I never liked coffee, the taste too bitter, but to show my maturity, I drink it now. He sits a metre away, glaring at my gestures. We talk and talk about the oceans and seas: my ageing eyes unsheathe sagacity. His face is earnest and callow, a million hues in the iris, Swirling gently. How spellbinding time is, that invites such marvellous complexities to fuse from innocent wonders.