barroom ruminations.

A Story by M. Howell

9/3/12

It’s 3am and we’ve just kicked the last wobbly patron out the door. His red checkered flannel disappears into the pre-dawn glow of the street as you shut the door behind him and slide the deadbolt in place, breathing a slow sigh of exhaustion as you turn to meet my gaze. I’m back behind the bar with a rag slung over my shoulder as I deliver the last of the old, chipped shot glasses to its resting place underneath the big oak slab.

I toss the rag on the counter and slink ‘round to meet you under the warm yellow flicker of a dimmed light. And before I can get a chance at your lips, you collapse into my embrace. I run my fingers gently through your hair as you rest in the crook of my shoulder, radiating an unmistakable demand for the dreamy oblivion of slumber.

We head to the stairwell in back, your head still titled to rest on my shoulder as we make the climb to our cold water flat overlooking the narrow street below. The rattling delivery trucks are beginning their first rounds and the messengers on their bikes whistle by as the subway’s clamorous screech swells upward through the grated sidewalk to linger just outside the open bedroom window.

It’s the dead of summer in this city and the sticky heat is oppressive and unforgiving. We’re forced to lean on one another as we peel off our clothes, piece by piece, silhouetted by the rising sun as it peeks over the tops of neighboring buildings to strike our bodies in the blue morning hours.