We are at a lull in The Lost Weekend.
Recovering from Guinness pints, Jameson on the Rocks, the smokey The Lamp Post Tavern (two nights in a row), and jukebox music. The apartment is quiet except for the twinkling piano and horn of John Coltrane's Blue Train. A soft breeze filters through the sunlit blinds, and the trees hush at my Blue-haired Demons that have been held at bay since Wednesday when Mike arrived. Today, they've just crept silently in the moonlit night back to my Wall, clawing at the gate, and rattling the heavy locks on the door. I sprawl in the purple chair, empty-handed, and prepare my defense. The maps are outdated, the battlefield looks unfamiliar, and the reinforcements have long forgotten their way.
It is good to have a Wing Man in all types of battles.
We met at University, but really got to know each other when he briefly lived here in Chicago. Bond was forged, and I am lucky enough that he refused to let it be weakened or broken. A great conversationist with a sense of humor that matches mine well, and an admirable noble and warm heart. Overall: a Good Man. He's good for me, especially in the past Troubled Years. He reminds me of who I used to be and who I hope to become.
A perfect partner in crime for a (equally corrupting) Lost Weekend binge.
I am looking forward to tonight. We are meeting with Cybele and Miss Arsh for drinks at an, as of yet, unthought of location. The requirements are: food served; whiskey and Guinness must be available; quiet enough to talk, but not library quiet; good tunes on the jukebox; and light enough to see, but not fricking department store bright light. I want candlelights and smiles and laughter to the point of "...oh! My gut...it hurts!"
Pictures might be taken, some of which may not be burned for fear of being used as evidence against us in a Court of Life. ;-P
Stay tuned for blurry and booze-soaked details to (possibly) follow.