Monday, December 22, 2008


There’s a club downtown where the ghosts go, their movements trailing as they order Bloody Mary’s and toast to the coldness. Their eyes are clear as they laugh and draw diagrams of their deaths on the backs of napkins. Through the bathroom door you can hear crying, behind the bar the bottles are empty but you couldn’t cut a throat if you tried. The house band plays the same song again and again, a fast-moving number with a back beat that gets sadder every time you hear it. At the end of the night the bartender kicks everyone out and they fall through the floor, waiting in the rocks for happy hour to start.