Not the last drop which was my own, stopping by, to see him again and again. The mahogany furniture shined and tarnished. Sitting, as in hardly touched. I sat enfolded in my image, between the shiny legs of the desk. He sought out coincidences in me, as if time were calling in for messages.
Nothing is that perfect.
I did not answer, I was not there. I had not known the story and all who died there, just because it was in Denver. Staying swanky New York, alone on a Saturday night. The city wasn't big enough to indulge his uncertainty, he said, but he sought out fun anyhow. Two walked in, they knew the ropes.