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An ordinary world4/28/2023 Everything creaks like the old boards underneath my shoes, wheezing under the weight of things heavier than usual. Fingers that once curled with luxurious ease around the handle of a gun now snap and crackle like old popcorn around my double bourbon, and the dark center of creation between my legs tumbles over uncomfortably inside my too-tight jeans, and around me people rummage in their pockets every few minutes and stare into little boxes of light that occupy them so completely it seems like nobody, not even someone with a pistol, will ever get their attention again. I hurt in places that used to propel me painlessly across sidewalks, through doors, over fences, and into the unoccupied arms of women. They lunge at me too quickly, screaming lyrics too loud to understand. Sounds that feel made up the moment I hear them crash into others just as weird and fake as the ones before. Nothing playing from the speakers is familiar to me. The Manhattan skyline grins at me from across the water, a set of broken teeth too expensive to replace. My gums and hair are receding, dragging my beautiful city along with them into my head, shrinking them into memories to fit the small space inside my skull. I shouldn’t feel this good because nothing is the same. Chipped away print shows it as September 8, 1998. The pretty bartender was kind enough to overlook the expiration date on my I.D. When the guard gave it back to me this morning, before slipping it into the back pocket of my jeans, I pressed it hard to my chest like a dear friend I thought was dead. I can still feel its coat of dust, a decade of age collected from the bottom of a yellow file, but its mine again. I don’t know where I’ll go or where I’ll sleep when they close, but right now this seat is mine, this drink is mine, the table and the ashtray on top of it and the cigarette smoldering inside the ashtray are mine, this warmth and bitterness and cold skin are mine. This bar patio is my home for the next few hours. The flavor isn’t pleasant, but it’s a discomfort that’s all my own, a bitterness I’ve chosen to taste. Warmth is reaching up from my insides, a pleasant burn that pushes against the late December air sliding across my bare arms.
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