The second installment inspired by Tuesday’s outing.

Lurching gently up and down the block we danced around our options: too much grease or too little booze guiding our eyes from door to door. A mystery lurked behind the tinted windows of a restaurant which beckoned us in.

Of the three already seated we were fractions smaller than microns and treated so as the well-oiled waiters reluctantly greeted us. Freshly built steps and our love of heat carried us to the roof coated in splintering chairs and wafting curtains of white linen for fruity drinks. Here, in the high and abandoned warmth of the rooftop, we dallied with the bartender over our newly acquired potions and treats. Upon his departure the disappointment rallied in my companion’s eyes and rested heavy at the corners of her mouth turning down her words in gentle discernment: this was not magic. Inspiration fluted through the alleyways and chased the sun from the pavement as we descended to the street. Inspiration whispered in door hinges, oven exhaust and the weak pleas of homeless men.


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