God-damn. When I could see my breath, those were the days. Biking across town when you couldn’t get a bus back. Slamming down the gin in a room without a coat rack.
Just trying to be drunk, ignore all the pastor’s daughters, and dance with abandon. Lay down in the grass, feel the world wobble and tilt. That same grass we would play soccer in. In that same park where we ran our game. With those same people I now struggle to identify.
Because the next week we’d do it all again, the board-games, the drinking, the music, the bars. Nothing like rice, beans, and roller-blades. Black-ice and broken watches. Extra guac because we knew the servers. Extra rum because he’s an actor.
Just for a minute. You’re not an actor. Just hand him your ID, and we’ll be fine.
And if it wasn’t that, it was an awkward show, or it’s across the street to Squirrels to just bitch about women. ‘cause we’re going to make a planter, we’re going to start a blog. We’re going to wear tight gloves and help a brother out.
If our cheeks are red it’s because we’ve been smiling.
If our fingers are numb it’s because we’ve been playing.
If the ciders are cold it’s because we planned it.
Maybe we’d brew some mate, maybe something stronger. Maybe we’d play some board-games, and maybe we’d be entertained.
But those nights. Those days. God-damn.