Sep 23, 2006
9:48 AM
Smoke engulfs the bottles in front of the mirror. Christmas lights hang glumly, shining light that illuminates nothing. The entreaties, negotiations and impressions ooze from mouth to ear at nearby tables. I'm in another carpeted sewer--imbibing until it is time to sleep.
Bravado is erupting at the end of the bar. God, I hate bravado. He absently shifts things about, and exhales a plume, while his audience—at either elbow—hoots and counters the boast.
The reptilian part of my brain wants something unholy, but the head cold will win. It wants me to go make platonic love to my bed.
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