I still feel the chill of the beer glass in my fingers, even
all these years later, the dark bar, the old couple, the bartender she seeks to
impress, and me, lingering on the edge of the stool like a truant school boy.
I still feel the chill of it as if it made its way down into
my bones, this lingering sense of the inequitable I can’t shake, which grows
more and more intense this time of year, the card and candy I foolishly
brought, set aside on the bar, abandoned, if not forgotten.
I still feel it, as vivid now as then, as haunting ass the
regular arrival of a full moon, stirring up something ugly, something I
despise, something I wish I could take back, but can’t.
I still feel the chill of the glass against my hand as I
pick it up to sip, inebriated by more than just hat the glass contains, and
always will be.
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