Some places are waiting rooms for the people we hope will find us
It started with Fridays.
Every week, I was there — always the same time, always the same spot, a few steps away from the bar where
feeling
The glass was empty again. I didn’t ask for another. For once, I let the quiet sit. And maybe that was enough.
The bar had a way of swallowing you whole. Not in a dramatic, noir-film kind of way, where the protagonist drinks away his troubles with