smoke and colored glass

Sunday is as good a night as any to be at the bar, to be at any bar. This Sunday I was at the Amsterdam, five Crown and Cokes and three hours in conversation with my best friend. I have one of those; I count myself among the lucky. Dim light leaks through colored glass lamps haphazardly hung throughout the bar, made tangibly warm by drifting smoke, and we pass the time talking about how nothing ever ends up how we thought it might. I worry about this frequently. Even when you can feel change coming before the first inklings of movement are made, it's hard to be prepared.

Her mom has just had a surgery and she's here on family duty. Before too long she's leaving for Seattle and I'm afraid. Growing up seems to be a matter of holding on to things that are worthwhile even as they fade out between your fingers and scatter across the country. I'm thinking of the future and forgetting about the present, and she reminds me that this is rarely fun. I let go.

We run out of cigarettes and I pay the tab. She sidles up to some other patrons and asks for a cigarette for the two of us - it's a good thing she's so charming. Someone's dog is barking as we cross the street to the car, but it's not time to go just yet. We smoke and sit on the curb, cars drive by on their way home from whatever revelry or disappointment or habit that brought them here.

Before we leave she plays me music. She's got impeccable taste and whatever she chooses is always perfect for the occasion. It's a real talent, finding and loving music this much. There's a harp and an imperfect voice that soars in chorus, choosing impossible words that make me smile. I'm looking out the windshield and I can see the highway as the sound washes over me and rolls over the concerns in my head. Lights reflect and distort through the glass, lengthening when I blink. These are the things I love most in life, this is a moment that makes it worth it. If people sing despite vocal limitations like this, with no concern but to sing, then my problems are nothing.