![]() I’m drifting when the woman speaks, my cigarette musing in its tray, bourbon drowsing in my hand. The best dreams I’ve had I’ve had in bars. Now and again I slumber, upright on my stool, elbows steady against the bar, head only slightly bowed. Bar noise comforts me, and the soft, somnolent light calms my mind. ![]() ![]() Patrons play eight ball in the wings, contributing to a semi-visible noise that fills a pocket in my head. Oval tables and narrow chairs clutter the floor. Snug booths with leather pews line one wall. The remainder of the Hideaway lies in the dim, diminished, familiar light common to taverns. ![]() He leans over the cash register, a rectangular nimbus gliding over his features-the glint of a new credit card. My headless disciples, Eli calls them, their caps screwed straight onto their necks. The Hideaway has fishy yellow light on the business side of the mahogany, illuminating staggered rows of liquor, staining the glass containers. ![]()
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