The TV is watching itself
Light rain on damp bricks in the alleyway. Thinking of the day before yesterday which felt like a million years ago. Nighttime in her pocket, a number in her memory. She always knew when something was up, and when things were about to go down. Slippery slow whispering voices. Cool drizzly nights of longing. Her past knocked on the door, told her a tall tale. Long-distance calls from a faraway room. Spilling whichever truth happened to be handiest. Handing out promissory notes based on a lucky streak from a few months back. Sometimes you can be sitting next to a Joe or a Jill on a barstool, and be a universe away from each other. Voices whispering through the blue haze of cigarette smoke. The jukebox playing jazz standards. Which world do you want to live in, was a question she asked herself. Living above a speakeasy in Chinatown suited her just fine. She puts on a robe and some satin slippers, walks down the winding rusted iron staircase to the secret basement entrance. Sits down at the bar. There’s half a murmuring crowd that’s half loaded in the joint. Glances and stares are passed around. A few minutes past midnight, again. The TV is watching itself. The bartender slides her a vodka martini with a twist of lemon. She grins, then takes the first sip and lets a deluge of memories flood her mind.
Thanks DuVay, Mike, Rachel.
Thank you, Mary L. Tabor.