This is what the whiskey helps with - not forgetting, but a blurring of lines.
Sip by slow sip the past comes back to him.
Everything glows. Sadness, like the light at sunset, touches all things golden.
If only there was something left to wait for.
After the fourth drink the old songs make sense to him. Lena Horne singing Stormy Weather. The sweetness of lost disturbances, of rooms through which no one moves.
He's had enough. He fumbles about for the bottle cap but cannot find it. He gives up, pours himself another.
His throat aches.
Dark outside now. He should turn on the light, draw the curtain. Instead he sits, watching the streetlight come through the window, the shadow of the wind chime on his bedroom wall.
Two wind-stirred figures, dancing delicately apart.