She told me to go to a bookstore on the corner of this street and that one. She knew I liked to read. I’ll meet you there, she texteded.
Men were milling around inside, perusing pedantic books they’d never read or understand. I approached a bookshelf and pulled on a tome called The History of Madness. I opened to page whatever. In the margins somebody had scribbled in red pencil: you can never go back.
She saddled up next to me. I shut the book and gave her a platonic hug. She was impressively dressed in black and white: I missed the memo–I was not in any decent color scheme. Do you know what this place is, she asked. It’s a speakeasy. She smiled.
A man emerged from behind the poetry section to lead us into the bar, where we both got really drunk. I told her about my problems: money, cocaine, you. We drew inane pictures of interspecies struggles. Then it was time to go.
I gave her another platonic hug. She faded into the night and I thought about that anonymous red message. Then I didn’t go after her. To do otherwise would have been madness.