I’m less alive when I’m not at Kyle’s bar. Less substantial, somehow. Like a strong gust of wind might blow me away, atom by atom, until I fade like an old picture in the sun.
Everything else is a blur. Running errands, cooking meals on the hot plate in my tiny rented room, drawing commissions to keep some money trickling in—nothing holds my full attention. Not anymore. Not since him. I stumble through my days in a trance, mind elsewhere, until night falls and I can finally slip through the doorway at Kyle’s.
Then: noises are full and rich again, pressing against my ear drums. The heat and humidity tickles my skin, and the taste of whiskey mists the air.
I’m here at last, rooted in my body, fully alive once more as I slip through the crowds of drinkers to find a good spot to sketch. Whe
