The Longest Day of the Year

Today could not have been the longest day of the year when there were so many longer ones this week. Yes, I will have the Best Piña Colada Ever because I am susceptible to both piña coladas and advertising.  It is the First of Summer.

When I’m sitting at the bar I don’t know where to look.  The bar is narrow, and when the bartender works the shaker it feels an imposition to watch. This guy here: let’s call him Elegantly Eating Oysters.  A woman outside knocks on the door of a parked tour bus.

I didn’t want to go home because the night was beautiful, but the boroughs seemed far away.

I stare into the drink now that I have a focal point, and I think of another drink. Morir Soñando, how I read about a bar serving them in The Village Voice, and how it sounded like they would taste like creamsicle.  How Erin and I set off in search of ours.  Even though the blurb gave the translation, when the bartender asked us, “Do you guys know what it means?” we pretended we did not.  To die dreaming. How we stood in the street after we drank, deciding. “We could go this way, and it could be fun. But we could go this way…and it could be dangerous!”

Morir soñando is my cellar door. I reserve the right to use morir soñando in everything I write ever. I reserve the right to belabor the point. I reserve the right to dream of dying dreaming.

Don’t do that, barman. Don’t reach over the bar for garnish, because then your shirt lifts above your jeans, and then I add in the band-aid on your cheek that I had questions about. I already didn’t know where to look.

Undiscussed pleasure: the city is big enough to feel lost when you want to.

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