The bars close down. The virus.
So I have my own drinking night. I line up four glasses of Merlot in my bedroom. Prep my playlist.
Debussy and Tchaikovsky mingle with shadows. Moonlight arpeggios weep and brass instruments crash.
But there’s no laughter, gruff and awkward, like Seth Rogen or lilting and light. No bodies in backwards baseball caps and black tank tops. No youthful faces laughing over pool and missed shots. No Lady Gaga on the jukebox.
Just a rectangular room. A bed. A computer. White walls.
Dusk deepens, lavender shadows darting.
Another thing lost.