The bar nearest your apartment you made a second home. There, you wrote ad copy and composed lousy poetry, an incoherent first novel. But mostly you drank, with others like you or, even better, a woman, drunk too, attracted by your worn leather chapbooks and the romantic person they implied. You drank until they turned on the lights, sending you out into the streets. Fleeing like a vermin or cockroach.

Tuesday nights were like Saturday nights. Better even, with less weekend warriors and more serious drinkers. Consuming alcohol wasn’t a lark; it was necessary. You loathed the frivolity of drinking games. You abhorred St. Patrick’s Day, with its crowd of bingers and lushes, those foolish over-served. Could they not appreciate the sanctity of alcohol? No they could not. The divide between you and them had become a huge chasm.

Yet…

On the other side was a sunlit pasture, a better place. Even in your cups, you saw it from the bar stool. You knew it was there.