Café

And he tilted to flick the ash into the beer can while he was working on the proposal at night. The second paragraph had moved ahead steadily but his revisions were delayed, a phonetic detour whose route was trying to circumvent a particular point concerning the letter "w." Navigating the detour wasn't the problem, it was getting to the end. His pen had ink. We needed the report to assuage our supplier of sound. This was crucial if we were to be able to hear what he was writing, after he wrote it. His value was validated by the fact that because he had given up his interests in mathematics, suffered, while continuing to play the piano and write prolix, in time, that prolix became piquant as the mathematics slowly transformed from numbers to letters, written music, pirouetting prose, like dancing. He wrote dancing and this gift facilitated our literary Tango, successfully, up to this point. It wasn't a matter of it no longer being a success at some other, it was just a scene where we knew what he could do and hoped he would continue, and offered support, even though he wasn't concerned.