July 7, 2013
I am sitting on the porch, barefoot and drinking red wine. The faint sounds of a Michael Jackson cover are haunting the neighborhood. I have been reading a Murakami novel for an hour and a half, but now my mind is flushed from the wine.
I keep trying to remember last night and the way he said, “You know what I mean?” after every thought. We talked about rock and roll bands and produce. I take note that he is thirty years old and never had a cup of coffee.
We were sitting at a table in the middle of a dive bar on a Saturday night. My eyes were gravitating towards the butts that kept coming within less than a foot of my face.
“You don’t like Pink Floyd?” he asked.
“I went through a phase in college,” I responded. “They helped me write a couple short stories.”
The awkward silence is trampled by an acquaintance of mine who buys us a round of drinks.
He asks where I see myself in five years, and my only response is “thirty-three.”
He wants to talk about his high definition Blu-Ray television and Stanley Kubrick films. I tell him about my grandmother’s wooden panel television from 1985.
We talk more about relationships and records. He shows me a video of the eighteen Bill Cosby records he owns. I tell him about my weird relationship with Styx.
Around one in the morning my beer was empty. We leave the bar and say our goodbyes. When I got home I was wide awake and waiting.