Saturday Evening Register of Actions

One (1) dive bar with one (1) cute bartender telling me he tried my regular drink at a separate bar, separate night. I must be four (4) drinks deep. The bar has been slow, frigid, and I sabotage myself with stolen glances and sips of drink. I’m one of the real ones, a true regular, never opening a tab. He knows I’ll pay. Johnny Cash croons over the jukebox, perhaps the way he was meant to be heard– crusty, faded, too loud, too soft– fitting for a place too little or too much at various times in my life, all equaling out to a sum of “just right”– is it because of the company, or the prices? Certainly, the music. Absent of one (1) band I hold dear, present baseball and other bands I like half as well, this is still the place for me. Bartender with kind eyes getting to know me. I’m his good luck charm, or so he says. What a time to be alive in Dallas. The weather cooling off, summer turning into me, hugging me goodbye– for a new time. Fall because I’m falling, or fall because it all fell? The sky into my arms. My life around my pillow. This drink all over my lap. Either way, I’ve made my choices. Made my eyes. Moved my couch. Ate two (2) heavenly pancakes at a local diner in the presence of one (1) authentic ex-con. A sentencing hereby to just a little more, because more isn’t enough yet.