“The notion of second person is just… fundamentally objectionable. After reading the first ‘you,’ it becomes an uncomfortable experience, forcing yourself to make choices and speak words you’d never do or say. It becomes a terrifying experience for the reader. What if they miss a detail that’s crucial to the plot?” You cross your arms and wait, satisfied that your friend must understand the point by now.

“I started writing my story in third person,” he says. “And actually, I would’ve told myself the same thing when I began. Until I started re-writing it.”

Your arms come uncrossed as you fling your elbows to the table and put your hands to your chin. Your friend remains unmoving except to slip another hot pretzel stick off his plate. He dips each one slowly, as if considering exactly how much condiment each bite requires.

Soon, the rest of the group will be arriving, you remember. These philosophical quandaries can become frustrating, and a new topic and a third beer sound phenomenal right now. Still, there are things to appreciate about meeting at the bar early. You and your friend Jay already have your tabs open and a little sustenance by the time the others arrive. Your discussions with him aren’t always so perplexing either. Really, you tell yourself, you should be grateful for these conversations.

“I think we need more hot pretzels,” you say. As a server moves past your table, you raise your hand and shout for his attention. The poor guy almost trips, visibly shifting mental gears. You are just about to request more hot pretzel sticks, but Jay interrupts and orders first.

“Could we get some onion rings, please?” he asks.

A look of distaste crosses your face for a second, but you reluctantly turn back to the conversation. “We can’t have anything nice tonight, can we, Stephen King?” Jay chuckles at the sarcastic remark. “Or,” you say, “whichever famous author writes in second person.”

“To appreciate the story,” Jay replies, “Readers have to… well… think differently. Appreciating books in a new way requires engagement; having a group discussion afterwards isn’t a terrible idea.”

When the server returns, you let Jay take the first few onion rings, consider his idea. Then you pick up a single onion ring and drench it in sauce before deciding you’d rather not eat one. Jay can have it. Watching your antics, he shakes his head and grins. He insists that you should think about second-person more, read his story again, and see what happens. You nod out of politeness, but you’re still not entirely sold. Jay’s first, third-person draft seemed more approachable.

“For some reason,” you tell him, “you seem to rub my mental the wrong way. And yet we always come back to talk again. Even though you insist on these strange philosophies—and on getting onion rings! I think I’m getting more pretzels if that server comes back again.”

Jay decides to change the subject. It’s been rainy and gray outside all day, and you both reminisce on a college beach trip from a few years ago. The server comes back, but you fall silent. You might spoil your appetite, you think to yourself. But perhaps it’s worth it when the pretzels taste so good. There’s only one left on your tray, and Jay still has onion rings. Without warning, though, he manages to snatch the last pretzel stick while you’re lost in thought. You open your mouth to protest, but he interrupts.

“Ya know,” says Jay, “I just thought of something.” He was so quick to swipe the food, but he dips into the sauce slowly and analytically. At first, this feels like a dramatic, if playful, middle finger to you. “You really hate onion rings, huh?”

“They’re not my favorite,” you say.

“When was the last time you tried them,” Jay asks.

You think for a moment and realize it’s been a while. A number of years—perhaps a decade or more. When you tell Jay, his grin grows even larger.

“So,” he says, “why not read my story?” He finishes off the pretzel stick, and you cross your arms again.

The door opens and your other friends walk in. Still lost in thought, you stay at the table a bit longer. Jay gets up and moves to the bar to join the group and watch the baseball game that started a couple minutes ago. Then Jay’s little comment makes sense.

“Wait a second,” you call after him.

“What’s up,” he asks and turns around. A mischievous grin overtakes him. “You just gonna sit there, or are you gonna order some onion rings?”

“You devious, clever bastard,” you say—and you can’t help but smile back.