The luck of rarity.
3.18.18 – Yearly
We got no sleep these nights. I heard the jingle and dream of keys being dropped on pavement while locks were looked for. A shaking hand kept piercing metal and metal in hopes one might fit snuggly unto the other. The knocks were never louder even when they came as a fist upon my square but here they sounded like they rang from inside my bedroom. I could hear it all, the stumbling and disoriented movements of late night shenanigans and all the ways the cheerful tried desperately to ‘shush’ those discrete noises. Darkness always seemed to carry sound just a little bit better.
There were gestures of celebration spreading errantly along the alleys that would linger in stench and blemish long after the toasting was over. We punctuated our own evening with the same selection of poisons and over-amplified embellishment to the extent that we won the prize of laying on the lazy susan as she gently spun us off to some manner of repose. It was all the other late-comers that made drifting off difficult. We’d left accountability at the corner bar with a bill even his deep pockets couldn’t settle without rolling up sleeves and sorting dishes.
Morning wouldn’t stroll in casually with the coffee, it’d come crashing down like a bucket of cold water on the poor fool that started to delicately open that door. It hit enough to trigger an out-of-body experience and I’d wonder if all that din between then and dawn was just me messing about to find my own manners; it made sense because this slack hadn’t slept a wink and felt like it was going through the same damnable motions all night. I’d been there before, enchanted and on the edge of sleepwalking towards a sober future, but now it was raining and my body was looking for a calm state between the numbness of a half-death and soreness of a half-life.