I studied my bottle of beer. Condensation had softened the label and I worried a corner, rubbing away the description of the contents, before setting the bottle back on the table. Why was it always my fault? That was the question I contended with. Always blamed for things that have nothing to do with me. Seems to be a narrative theme of my life.
All I’d done was rest my hand on Adam’s table, inches from his, and I’d leaned forward for the sake of discretion, as I hadn’t wanted to embarrass the man. I’d offered him my support, upon what I suppose was a stab of conscience, an impulse I regretted even as I followed through, it being remiss of me, or so I thought, to neglect his welfare. He was clearly a strong and nimble man, perhaps capable of taking care of himself, although lacking Eva’s
