The Response

S,

I’m glad you wrote. I’m glad you’re doing well.

Of course I remember the night on the trail. And the next morning at Rosie’s. Rosie’s, where the waitress with the blue eye shadow kept bringing us cups and cups of coffee and I just kept filling it with bourbon. I think she knew. She kept winking at you. You were always the good-looking one of the bunch. That was the bathroom where I first noticed the lines around my mouth. I’ve never told anybody, but I panicked. You talk about feeling old, I know I’m old. It’s written on my face for everyone to see. I got over that soon enough, though. Just a momentary slip I guess. It snowed faster than I’d ever seen that night on the trail. I almost started to regret our vow for a sober evening when it started piling up around us. Turns out that was a good decision. I can’t even remember what we talked about over that plate of eggs (over-easy!) but I remember the smell of the whiskey on that dark wood table. Damn, it smelled like warm brown sugar and molasses. I know I’ve never been warmer.

I don’t know what to say about your new lifestyle. A man can’t live on words and thoughts alone. Or even green tea. I know because I’ve tried. Soon that empty feeling you’ve got will turn to paranoia and plain worthlessness. The void can feel like home for a good while, but it will turn against you if you depend on it too much. Keep a mixture of black coffee and Kentucky bourbon somewhere inside of you and you’ll always be warm. Everything happens for a reason. I’ll tell you everything someday.

Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da,
J.L. Brannon