There’s no sleep. And there’s no awake. But there is the aggressive beat of life leaving its own wake.
After the day’s sweltering heat, you try to open the door of your favorite bar, with your lady friend in tow. You find it locked.
When you stop tugging, there’s someone on the other side. Turning the latch. Letting you in.
“We’ve done this far too many times.” You say to your lady friend as you follow the bartender in.
Then, “I thought you opened at 8.”
“We do. But we unlock the doors for the first customers.”
The bar is how you remember it- for the most part. There are some new paintings. But the table that belongs to the two of you is still there. She walks over and sits.
You order drinks from the bartender and make small talk while she pours. Except it isn’t small talk- you actually care about the answers.
You care about everything at that moment- the bartender, the woman sitting at the table, the decorations, the grandness and blandness that coexist as life.
You pay for the drinks, walk them over, and sit at the table. She turns to you- her smile arriving before she does. Her dress is made of colors as vibrant as you wish you could feel. Her dress is made of a thousand threads hugging her as you long to.
“This feels so strange- like a dream.”
“Or death.”
“God- are we dead?”
“I’m just glad it’s cool.”