IX. The Hermit.

A Flophouse—LATE AFTERNOON

I wake up bathed in sweat on my rickety little cot.

I had been dreaming that a girl just looked at me and wanted to kiss me. That is the stuff of pure dream. Surely no one has or will. Wanted to kiss me at first sight, that is. Kisses are an uphill battle in this world. And not one of my successful campaigns.

Yea, a few gals have wanted to kiss me in public. The fucked up ones trying to make their beaus jealous or the desperate and non-picky ones at 2AM. Maybe. That’s all. This thing we call love is physical. True love is reserved for the pretty. Love at 1st sight. Amen. They’ve all let me go.

These were the thoughts in the dream. I dreamed I am an old-young man splattered by dreams and drink.

Okay. Not far from truth. I think.

I have now become quite the Hermit, these late days without Andrea. That is the sum total observation as I stand in a cheap room in the City, swigging from a cheap bottle. I look out the window at what I can see of the City from my shabby new place. My whiskey bottle is near-empty. I raise it and shake its final contents, which glow amber in the dwindling sunlight.

Shit.

I’m going to have to go get more.