. . . and then I was home again. On the avenue for lunch and sangria, in bed for a nap, up and to the gym, then some marketing, feeding the cat, dinner for one, quiet, left to my own thoughts and resources, the endless thinking. . . .
There are routines to break.
But the house was fresh and clean, the maids coming while I was away. It almost sparkled. And there was jazz and low light and old fetishes all around.
And there are routines to break.
Up this morning with coffee, I read the news, read the Times. . .
So many routines to break.
And so. . . Sunday morning. . . I am unable to come up with anything at all. But I remember I sent myself a text from the bar yesterday at lunch. There was something amusing in it. And so. . .
Sitting next to Billy, an older, sophisticated drunk who has been around town since the very beginning. Finishing up his third vodka and fortieth story, he calls for his check. "I feel a lot better than I did when I came in," he says. "Jesus, I got so drunk last night, I could barely put the ball on the tee this morning," he jokes shaking his hand dramatically. "I looked like I had vodka palsy."
There is often something very clever about hideous men.
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