We teeter in the penumbra of Old Style sign glow and German-smelling hops. Noble gasses cast their OPEN sheen upon our liquor-glossed eyes, pupils swirling until the world tips back in sync. Time has begun to progress on a diagonal. The evening, which began as drinks at our usual woody pub, and quickly turned…
Marcelo was the neighborhood’s leaky faucet. He dripped through our alleys and parks, sometimes climbing fire escapes, and, at his worst, pissing on lawns. Description of his presence was quickly amended from consistent to maddening, but you couldn’t pin blame on him: he was thirty-one…