"What are you thinking about now?" he asked,
across the table,
over the empty plates,
into the silence of an unfinished conversation.

"Is it normal to be terrified?" I want to say.
And when will writing not feel like assembling a jigsaw puzzle
where all the pieces are gray,
or like being in a country with nothing but
out of date currency?

But no words come,
or maybe it was all the wrong words—
I don't remember.

What I remember is this:

With tired eyes and a precise, compassionate voice,
he looked at me and said,
"Fear is a useful diagnostic tool."

And then, when we got up from the table,
he took my wine glass, not quite empty of a good Chilean red,
put it to his lips,
and drank it.