The Table Was Never About the Beer

11pm. The phone lights up on the red plastic table: "why so late?" He picks it up, types a few words, deletes them. Not because there's anything to hide. Because the true answer sounds so small out loud.

These old friends only manage it at Tết and on a public holiday. Tonight they had to push two tables together to fit. They've been here since evening, and the crate under his chair is still almost full — half the bottles still capped. He can't find a way to type it so the person at home would understand: we came here to sit, not to drink. In the end he types, I'll tell you about it tomorrow.

What fills five hours? One of them complains about his boss. One shows off a kid who just started first grade. Then one says his mother is in the hospital — and every glass goes down at once, and nobody adds anything. They live in four different provinces now; all year they exchange a few birthday messages. This table is the only place they say the real thing. So nobody stands up to leave. They just order another plate.

The bill is settled, they step out to the curb, and nobody hugs anybody. Just a punch on the shoulder, then: so when's the next one? Translated properly, that sentence means I've missed you. It's only that none of them knows how to say it plainly. Home again, he opens his phone and saves a date for next time.

That punch on the shoulder is the greeting. Still making plans means still caring.

When was the last time you sat with your old friends? And do you remember how much you drank that night — or only what they told you?