Epic

She's a writer, the drunk voice calls at the end of the bar. We're so many bottles in, we're so many dollars in and who cares I'll look at the tab tomorrow. We chat up the gay boy whose partner works the bar; we sneak out the back door and saunter into the musical chairs singalong on Christopher. Good luck catching a cab on Seventh Avenue but you send them off in a yellow SUV before turning the West Village corner where you belong and the street is so short even at night.

Two and a half years, can you believe it? but no one can. I can't remember what happened in the in-between. You sway softly in the safe nook that is these streets, that is this city, that is this language, and by the end of the night are you not friends with everyon at the bar? The dog remembers you; he is old,  but he lies in the fold of your arm as though nothing had changed. The bartender passes through with the tip jar; I have an operation on Wednesday. She explains it's her birthday. We cannot help but laugh at it all. Weren't we best friends before the hiccup? Catch your breath and find nothing has changed.

The tiny room on Morton Street lies unchanged from your absence. You crawl in, brush your teeth, try not to wake anyone up despite the papier maché walls and tomorrow will be just as hot and humid again, it's a ruse. Your winter clothes lie untouched in their crowded closet space. You sleep a delicious, heavy sleep but without dreams. What dreams could you have?

You are here.