Sometimes writing is like swallowing buckets of sooty coal and spitting out itty bitty specks that glint in the sun. No diamonds here.

Soon I'll need to crawl carefully inside my head, searching patterns in the dust for clues. I think my subconscious tip toes around up here and jumbles the wires to confuse me. I still have a smell that connects me to a memory. I reach, and it's gone.

In my head today is a speck of time at the bar last night. Less than a minute. A customer sits and orders a Corona. Pushing a slice of lime into the bottleneck I hand him a beer. Watching me, then glancing over my shoulder he asks, what do you do if there is a fight around here?

Turning to see what he sees, I pick out The Angry Guys. I move. As I reach the group of maybe six or seven people -- a few guys with their girlfriends -- one guy pushes another. The little tableau of strained faces and postures at odd angles seems to shimmer, poised for the next move.

Stepping toward the man staggering back from the push, I hold out a stiff hand at him and anticipating a return swing, I say, don't.

To grim stares I turn to look at the other guys. To them I say again, Don't. Done.

Walking back to the guy sipping his Corona, I answer, I don't know what I would do if there was a fight in here. Let them exhaust themselves, I guess, then shove them out the door.

He tells me, they are friends, you know.

Hmmm.

Later I mopped over the spot where they stood, swiping any angry impressions away.