If It Isn’t A Memory


 

We drank Shiner Bock and Stolichnaya in thick plastic cups. The wooden tables were covered with fresh gingham. We lit little candles and floated them in glass. The muslin curtains hung from the rafters and touched the floor. We hid behind them and waited.

When it was over, we brought bottles to the table and lit American Spirits. The music was hopeless. We tried to deal with the essential things. The whiskey burned like black pepper until one or two in the morning. We smiled and pointed at the funny ones. The music stopped playing and our eyes grew heavy.

At the end of each night, it was only her and I. If I finished the bottle, she’d get another. The wooden tables were bare and shiny in the candlelight.

I would leave then, and in the morning I would be awake.

The next day all of us would wait again in twilight, drinking vodka and paying attention to no one.

prompt: “waiting”

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