Him and I. That’s it. No one else. He’s into his cups. With a straight face, he says, “Don’t do anything sensible.” He got that right. I poured him the whiskies. Him and I, staring at each other. The jukebox is broken. “I manage a tall building” he says.
“You hate me.”
“I’m not doing confessions at this hour,” I say.
A beet red flushes his face. I go to the end of the bar. He shouts, “What are you doing?”
“Nuthin’” I shout.
Standing now, fists clenched, his tongue hangs out. “There is a secret door behind the mirror. I am going to take you there.” he says.
“There is a magic door that leads to the street,“ I say. He meets it as I toss him out.
“I manage a tall building,” he says.
I look up. The sky seems far away.