Barfly

Musings over mezcal

Sometimes I feel I understand him more in death. I catch our similarities in the backbar mirror, a drink by my side and a notebook in hand. I am not a big drinker, though I find myself amongst the regulars. There is comfort in the cacophony of chatter and clinking glasses. Ink flows more freely when I am alone amidst the rotating cast of characters. The darker the space, the better—eliminating all sense of time, dismantling the mental defense of holding back till the right word pours from my pen. Wall hangings that harken old memories amplify the void—curious, I think to myself. Staring, staring, trying not to blink at the reflection staring back at me.