You never know where you will stumble upon a word, a phrase, a few paragraphs that paint a picture in your mind so vivid you would swear you were there…
I made my getaway.
This dark and wannabe-smokey hideaway was nearly empty. The cushy chairs and couches were without asses. Four or five stray drinkers were at the bar and the mixologist was at my disposal. And it was 3pm. I felt like I had stolen the pie from the window.
“Mix me a Makers Mark Manhattan, up, stirred, not shaken, please.”
And he did, with efficiency and panache.
I took it back the corner of the Apartment, under the balcony where I could see the bar, the windows behind the bar, the lovely waitress when she came to the bar, and the rest of this beautiful room that speaks to me with courage and beauty the way a retired, old beautiful, experienced whore might do so just because she likes the company of a John who might have hired her in days past.
And it was 3pm in the afternoon on a work day.
Thanks Tom, for the memory I didn’t have before this morning.