Some, but that came later, before the Storm.
Feinting prospective perspectives in a liquid courtship dance.
Battle-hewn raspy arm-hanger; an atomic attraction superseded by only another, stronger bond with another even-more-disparate valency solidified by $, and cigarettes.
The bar—recently-raised (built upon the coattails of another less-nimble establishment)—attracting decadent frutillaries, frustrated servers shut-out of their tips by the ebb-and-flow of where the $ flows, basic families seeking respite from the water falling from the sky, itinerant workers (your humble Narrator, included), and bored residents seeking solace from the busy-ness of the daily Mess in which we find ourselves.
It is only the singular observer who remembers the proper steps of the Dance.
It is only I that actually sees these things.
It is only this Spy who is able to eventually escape the grasp of such a fever; never bored of actually being barred from such restrictive entanglement; no-mind to the enticements; no fear for the loss.
4118 Restaurant & Bar; Highlands, NC
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