Perfect, Bulleit Rye. Up.
I'm privy to a coupe. (It's Chris's fault.)
Don't bother poaching the cherry. Chris would just toss it in and let it sink to the bottom.
*I'm watching not-Chris stir and strain. Hoping he either knows how to execute perfect, or Chris is hopped up inside him for the moment*
And I'm 6 feet closer to the Earth than I feel I am: floating, thinking of Lynnfield, Massachusetts. I'd sit there, sip there. By the time that little Luxardo cherry rolled out of the glass onto my tongue, and after I'd smash it in my teeth 5 or 6 times, I'd be ready to bid adieu to Chris and the burning Gaslight without an agenda.
A quiet line of trees near a porcelain lake. Me and the manhattan in my gut.
You can take me out of Manhattan but you can't take Manhattan out of me. Unless you've got a stomach pump.
Manhattan was always inside me. That's why my first time in New York felt like coming into myself. And every time since.
On the tight knit surface of this manhattan I see me with my hair done up: young & flowerishly scented, in front of a mirror, making eye contact with a gray woman with fine hair pulled back into a studded clip. Pearls around her neck with some kind of knowledge I don't yet have the cogs to process but that bathes me in nostalgia. It is a flavor that puts my 23 year old palette in its place, like the ink on this page, stained to a dimension, gathering letters into phonetic: back to her. What does she want to say to me? "Pressure in unexpected places and the entrances of rhythm in spectrums that challenge the ones already established." What do you want to say to me? "Prepare for climax and keep exercising those smile muscles so your face turns out with wrinkles where you want them."