You walk into the writing bar, sticky summer Monday shortly after opening, the little pandemic outdoor seating a welcome homing beacon. The bartender greets you like a friend, you tell her this is my last writing Monday in a while, and she pours your drink for free. New York beams at you.
How many years has it been since you took your first hesitant steps into its underground, armed with a backpack full of unwritten paper? The Village Voice was still in print, its writers trickling in after work, discussing the discoveries of the day. How many first dates, second dates, pandemic meetups, last-minute drinks, moments of silence, have you had within its dark-wooded cavern? The first pangs of separation smart on your skin. You think maybe a part of you likes it. You never tell the bartender your order. You do not have to.
He writes from Hawaii, says he has a cabin in the depths of the Western wilderness if you'd like to live in it, and you think that yes, yes you do. Your mother calls you a Friday child, says everything always comes up roses for you. You feel the Universe align with your spine. A friend creates a road trip playlist for your travels. You feel the Universe settle in, get cozy, get ready.
All the things that were to come were too fantastic not to tell.
Turn your hand over. Find a pearl resting in your palm. Think, Alright then,
Let the adventure begin.
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