The writing bar remains, even though it is Wednesday, because the bartender wrote you on Monday to say she'd switched her shifts, and you are a sucker for a wink from the city. This bar which is more home now than the place where your keys fit in the door, this bar which has seen you through heartbreak and pandemics and despair and returns. This bar which has earned a place in your liner notes because without it, this manuscript would not be piled high beside you. You allow yourself a moment's catch-up with the bartender, allow yourself a quiet warmth in the orange glow of the light strings, before retreating to that table in the corner where so many of your words came to light. Pull out a manuscript. Look at your words.
Write a book.
It's all you're meant to do.
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