Wood paneling and wainscoting everywhere, spit flying. I image another rendezvous.
Where did you learn to fly? Well that assumes a lot.
Bluesy with a taste of twang, ready to get reckless?
A dear friend is smashed but alive. He rocks back and forth in an invisible cradle, a bottle neck loosely hooked through a ring finger. The bottle always fell/s first.
Sawdust on the floor soaks up the weather. One hundred year old grime on the walls fuzz up the air at McSworley’s. College buddies, now dressed in business suits, meet at the crowded circular tables. After a few too many pints they throw arms around each shoulder and rise swaggering to their feet singing the Alma mater. Once quiet they look at each other knowingly and sink back into their seats as one shouts for another round at the glass littered table. This was the first year men wore Gray Flannel. That fragrance and sweat fills the room.
I instinctively look for hides, and escape routes. But instead of escape…