Livet

16 ounces at Leroy's. I had been drinking bar scotch for so long that when I lifted the Glenlivet to my lips the bitterness of cheap whiskey was replaced with a smooth, but deadly loveliness. I arrived home after a 7$ cab ride, and declared the next several minutes to be apartment appreciation night. The lamp hanging above the room, staining the green vinyl couches, and the pallor of my skin, with a Soutine blood red that provided ideal lighting for late night revelations. I stared at the thick timbers that run through the ceiling of my home, trees chosen for breadth and age, their wisdom reduced to the purpose of holding up meek possessions. Out the window, the office building across the alley lay empty. Cubicles usually filled with men and women sat empty, their occupants surely curled up with loved ones, or playing out dark fantasies in the idleness of the weekend. If there was someone there, anyone, I would have waved with a half smile across the way. Surely they've seen me during board meetings, dancing in my underwear, or having sex on my couch with a cigarette hanging out of my mouth. I never close my windows, or cover them with blinds. The indecipherable din of chatter, and the sharp clicking of pool table balls is always a welcome sound throughout the night. I imagined the patrons downstairs, occupying the dark wood of the bar that runs the length of room, seeking its knowledge, and drinking its spirits.

So there I sat, in my moment of appreciation, and I wondered, where the hell am I?