And that means I’m missing those long evenings of coral lipstick and carefully parked cars and lime pulp and unused straws and the various bartenders’ laments we were always eager to stanch with our dishtowel pity. Having to split a Newcastle sometimes with our last four dollars like it was a root beer float or one of those milkshakes where you get the canister it was mixed in, there’s so much. Even the wet pill and fade of cocktail napkins we’d take when we left—I’m missing that—some joke we never had to say, the way no one really has to ask for a napkin, either, making the napkin the most perfect and obvious of all gifts. And I’ll keep mine dry and off to the side tonight, borrow a pen I promise not to steal so I can trace those ridges into lumpy wings or curtains rising or just write the first letter of your name again and again until it stands for almost nothing.
Front page image by kennymatic.