Tall, lanky, rubbery-faced K. is sitting across from me in Dunkin’ Donuts, smoking a cigarette he just bummed from the man beside him. “Chesterfield, goddamned Chesterfield. Ain’t had one of those in six years.” He’s talking steadily to no one, to the air, to the counter, now to someone who just sat down and is ignoring him, reading his newspaper. K’s mouth is bruised — from a fight? a sickness? His words rise and fall like a small boat, its rudder smashed. They rebound off the big glass windows, the way our soliloquies do in our minds. More in control than K., we just talk to ourselves.