6am and the rain pours off the burger van roof. The owner flips bacon and squizzles it with the spatula until it squeals. He calls me Gabe but that is not my name. He talks about the weather and asks me questions about my job. Mist settles like resin and I leave silences for answers – not because I’m rude but because I have nothing to add to his conversation. I’m thinking about Johari’s window and I know he wouldn’t be interested in that; his dialogue is a Venetian blind.
– Benjamin F Jones