Currency of Souls
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Eddie’s Tavern.
This is where I come to try to forget my pain. There’s so much of it here that isn’t mine, it should make me feel better, but it doesn’t.
And yet here I am, same as always. Saturday night at Eddie’s.
There’s no neon sign out front, nothing to advertise this as a place to come drown your sorrows, and that makes sense because sorrows aren’t drowned here, not all the way, only pushed under and held for a while.
The moon is a nicotine-stained fingernail as I step out of my truck, ponder the feel of my gut straining against my belt, and ease the door shut behind me. I’m getting fat, and I suppose as they say, like death and taxes, I’m shit out of luck if I expect to be surprised by it. Man eats as much chili as I do without chasing it down with a few laps around the barn, well… weight doesn’t evict itself.
I start on the path to the tavern door and see pale orbs behind the smoked glass turn in my direction. Nothing slips past these people, quiet or not. The door doesn’t creak, though it’s old enough to have earned that luxury. Instead it sighs. I sigh too, but I don’t share the door’s regret. For me, I’m just glad to be out of the cold and among friends, even if they mightn’t look at me the same way. Even if, in the dark of night when sleep’s a distant memory, I really don’t think of them the same way either.