The bar is quiet when you first walk in, a few young boys and a scruffy regular lean against the dark wood. You haven't seen the bartender in ages, she pours your regular with a heavy hand and updates you on the latest. I've been sick so long, she says, I probably shouldn't even be here. But I can't stand to think about it anymore. You can commiserate.
Your corner table is free, it waits for you, as it has waited for you for years now, ready when you are. The weather outside yells of summer despite the fallen leaves, and you get a hundred mosquito bites despite the early sunset. The clock behind the bar lies, it's been twenty to ten for as long as you can remember, it's an inside joke with people who probably aren't even here anymore.
But you are here. Again, again, still, after all this time, you are still here. The city tried to wring you out like a sponge for years and you remained, then the the world tried to wring your city out and you clenched your fist at the Universe for allowing this heartache, but you remained. Now the illness has washed the last of your weariness away, you have only love now, you have only remain, you have only the bare bones of whatever madness drove you to this city, to the world, to this life.
You're ready to see that
it is more than enough.
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