I am on leave for a week.
There are things happening in my periphery, and yet my attention is on the drink in front of me.
I massage the side of the glass. I tap on it, and the dark liquid inside sploshes and vibrates.
I listen to the drone of conversations, not making out the words.
Bursts of laughter and the clicking of billiard balls. The slam of the door. Who is it who came? Out of the rain?
Outside, it's cold. Rain had followed me from the East Coast.
I stare at my reflection. In the big long bar mirror.
I watch the tiger on the tap.
I see the green neon sign with the red star.
I feel the cushion under my ass. And the wood beneath that. My feet are on the floor tiles.
I breathe in cold air and smoke and the smell of fried rice and black pepper chicken and fries in the back.
Soon, I will eat. And later, I will go back and sleep.
