When it's at every table

A festival. A work site. A family house where it comes out after every meal. You might be there a week, a month, or every working day. No clean spot to stand in. Nobody to catch eyes with across the room. Nobody's even offering you anything. The whole room is the offer.

Take the easiest role there is. Be the visitor. The person with the accent gets to eat differently, leave early, wander off for a walk at odd hours, and the room just shrugs. That's what visitors are for. You don't need a speech or a stand. You only need to be from somewhere else, and now you are.

A crowd has gravity, not authority. It feels like a rule because everyone's doing it at once. But nobody there has decided anything about you, and most won't notice what's in your hand. The cigarette loves a room like this, because the crowd does its selling for free. The room isn't watching you. It's busy.

Volunteer for every errand. Walk to the shop for bread or ice. If someone offers, it's no thanks and a question back, and the whole thing takes a second. God isn't only found in the easy rooms. He walks into this one beside you. I'm only passing through. I live somewhere free.