Wednesday, April 1, 2015

Compassion, yes, that would be a thing I'd write about.

Two nights the fuck-up managed, to stay out of the wine.  And then he was reminded, it was, after the shellfish tower, the shared steak, burger and rueben late after the shift at Old Ebbitt, it was the 'french toast' shot the barman offered up at the end, as a gesture, that made one feel like hell.  Part of it was forgetting to be leery about trusting going out so late, after a shift, when he should just go home, but for the pathetic social life and the kind offer of an elder always good soulful company and the man in need of company before some serious tests up at Hopkins...  Yes, gallant co-worker reminded him of the parting shot, the free one, the one that made him feel like shit, sweating under his blankets as he waited for the alarm clock call at 2 PM...

Sunday night, not so bad, passed.  Monday night jazz, almost enough to tweak one back into it, but again, refrained from, the first sip, the first glass, the oh well but you need a glass with your solitary plate of food at the end...  And then a hectic Tuesday, a stiff back from pulling out of the headstand in an awkward way, the complexity of free wine tasting and bottle discount night celebrating the return of a good man from his travels in South America...  The sip from an opened Vacqueyras with the liver  provencal as the last ladies from the continent left.  No more than that, but when he got his flesh home on the bicycle, there was an open bottle of Pinot Noir from Friday night ticking its time away in the fridge.  He needed to relax.  The PBS show about cancer interesting enough.  The bathwater poured with epsom salts, a Virgin of Guadalupe candle set on the bathroom radiator, and the wine tasted good.

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