A month past now, I still remember the mirth inherent in that moment.
The voices to my left and right prattle on: jeering at one another, telling stories, lamenting failures of the past, questioning me, and decrying the ignoble deeds of the rich and powerful.
The inebriated are so… verbose.
In the distance, I can just make out a couple of vending machines standing forlorn against a high wall. My eyes narrow.
Mellow Yellow… is no longer… a thing.
Is this place older than me?
“YOU LOOK JUST LIKE JUSTIN TURNER!”
I turn my head.
“Who?”, I ask.
Another voice interjects, neutrally: “He’s a baseball player.”
“So I guess we all look alike to you?”
Guffaws and chuckles resounded around me as the arrow struck true: I’d never had a chance to use that line, and it felt every bit as good as I expected.