Six women arrive at the table. Cup remnants of waking dreams in crowded, dissipating wisps, faceless characters and confusing maps. We arrive to decipher together, mouth groggy snippets over biscuits and bacon. Outside, snow that could just sigh. We've returned to our previous seats. Forks placed to the left or tossed collectively into the center. Last night we drank at this table, over Scrabble tiles. Making up rules. This morning, one early riser emerges from the day's weather. Sock monkey with down on her brown cap. We start a new game. Acronyms are not acceptable, we decide. Directions no where to be found. I slowly stir my drink. Another undresses to hot tub on this vacation patch of Colorado cottonwood and pine. Red cars turn white in the driveway. We reach for the names and favorite sayings of bygone partners as if a clue inside. How we arrived here. Fortunes scripted on our tea bags. One continues to whip farm fresh eggs.