I look at the place next to my dining table and imagine a bar. On the bar, the usual: tequila bottles brought to the States by relatives, one of cheap rum, one of cheap vodka, and one each of the smoothest whiskey and scotch I can afford. Fuck all if I know brands. I’ve never been one to serialize.
The wood, dark.
My neighbor’s as shifty as I am. This behavior appeals to me. It is why I sit back and look around at bars, or when I go for coffee. There are people who don’t show who they are. She walked by today, we said hello. No acknowledgement of the fact that we hadn’t met for three months. This is fine for strangers. The people I don’t know leave no dents. Our front balcony looks over the parking lot and kiddie apartment complex pool. In the summer, everyone gathers out front. I chose the two-bedroom upper with a balcony so I’d have the room to breathe. The green carpet and matching wall lead to the back exit. The squirrels are gone, probably eaten by the cat. The spring frogs from the creek ceased croaking months ago, about the time the neighbor moved in. New neighbor ate the creek frogs?
I was missing three items: big chair, side table, reading lamp. A bar is extravagance, which is difficult for me to reconcile with other inclinations. I’d be more inclined to engage in the idea if the big chair turned, and if it turned to the balcony, like at the bar (the establishment, stay with me). On the rare day that I am too stressed to sleep and step outside for a bowl I expect to see someone else on their balcony, but the chances of this are diminished by universal coincidence.
I’m reminded of the Wendigo—an emaciated, jerky-like demon that craves human flesh and can never consume enough. It is always searching in the cold for more, more, more.