I couldn’t sleep last night. Maybe it was the rain, maybe it was the sticky heat, or maybe it was because my mind wouldn’t shut up. I needed to have a drink. I got dressed and left the apartment. I didn’t shower – I planned on getting dirty where I was headed.
In a dark bar on Avenue B, the city that never sleeps was wide-awake at 3 am. The vodka/ diet Coke tasted divine, but I knew the slightly drunk man next to me that smelled of whiskey and cigarettes would taste even better. I barely smiled at him and we were in a corner making out. He had a deep foreign accent and wore a shark’s tooth on a leather cord around his neck. He was sexy and strong, and he had muscles in a manly way – not a Chelsea way. And yeah, he kissed me like he meant business.
I didn’t take him home. Something about him scared me. I told him I had to meet a friend and I left the bar. I went home and slept like a baby.
It’s been a rough week. Saturday was the sixth anniversary of my husband’s death. On that same day, I received two rejection notices from apartments I had applied for. Before the clock struck Midnight, a business partner announced he no longer wanted to work with me. The next morning, I went downstairs and someone had stolen the two tires off my bicycle – the only night I had forgotten to chain the tires.
I played Joni Mitchell's "Blue" CD the entire afternoon.
Is it no wonder I can’t sleep?