Thursday, March 02, 2006

Stream of conciousness.

I order another glass of beer, look around the room and wonder where everyone has gone. I feel alone in this small, dark bar. What day is it? I think it's Friday, some time in March. Smoke is floating slowly toward me from a table in the corner; cigar and pipe officianadoes. Ooo! that redhead is attractive, I wonder who she's meeting. I think it started raining again. The juke box is making too much noise, I think somebody really likes soft rock. I'll have to go put on a few good songs. The redhead looks at me as I walk over the dance floor. Past the pool tables, a band is setting up. I think they're Irish Punk. I put a few quarters into the juke box, pick a few Classics, is that raspberry I smell? A hand touches the small of my back, auburn hair brushes my cheek. "The moon smells of red shamrocks," a soft voice whispers in my ear. The hair on my neck stands on end, "But the stars taste like whiskey," is my reply. "Meet me in the alley in five minutes." She's gone before I can get another look at her. I've been waiting for two weeks, now The Office has a job for me.........

Stay Tuned

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