memoir: fridays in summer.

I wrote this in August, 2012. 

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“Fridays in Summer”

On Fridays, I walk over to this bar for lunch and order whatever the special is. The bartender, Barb, always wears head-to-toe denim and pink lipstick a few shades too bright. For half an hour while I eat, I split my attention between the weather channel and staring into the soulless black eyes of this stuffed dog that sits behind the bar with dozens of bottles of dusty liquor. Today, a midget in a red bandana and a goatee sat a few seats down from me and ordered a beer. We watched the weather channel together in silence until I paid my tab and left. In the square, a man was wailing on the trumpet in a way I’ve never heard from a busker in this town. He smiled at me and I waved. I listened, mesmerized, until my lunch hour died, and then I held the elevator open for an old white man in a dark gray suit.

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