I spent most of the morning and a fair chunk of the afternoon hanging out with Tyron.
Tyron’s not his real name of course, and he might not even be a ‘he/his/him’ but one thing that I can tell you without fear of reprisal is that he talks a lot.
If he were Irish, which he isn’t, I would say he had the gift of the gab; but he hasn’t, because he isn’t but he may well as be because he has.
My contribution to the conversation was pretty much limited to; - uh ha, really? How come? When was that?
Tyron, who isn’t but might be, dealt with everything else.
Hours of loquacious flow uninterrupted by me or anyone else.
Not that there was anyone else there, but then there might have been.
If there had been, anyone else there, her - if it indeed turned out to be a ‘her/she/hers’ – contribution would probably have been much the same as mine.
All this to say that Tyron spoke a lot.
Full of stories.
An endless repartee brought to an end only by the fact that our wallets were empty having spent all our money on wine and food, coffee and cake.
If we had indeed eaten anything.
The weird thing is that this morning, I can’t remember a single detail of anything he told me.
I THINK we touched on The Holy Grail and its probable location, but then again that might have been during a different conversation with a completely different person.
Who may or may not have been called Eve.
Her, if it was indeed her, and I, if I was indeed there, also shared coffee and cake.
Or maybe biscuits.
Tyron possibly also spoke about windows, digital toxicity, former presidents, body parts and indestructible eye-wear.
But then again I have no memory of any of this.
Besides none of this may never have happened.
Editor’s notes – all names and places, fact and fiction have been changed to protect the anonymity of anyone who was or wasn’t present.
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