Nina Strolic

A Eulogy for Our Local

The bartender muddled m&ms at the bottom of a shaker and poured something thick into shot glasses.
We drank it because we drank anything put down on that bar.

The bar was worth the 14 block walk down Avenue B walk in the dead of winter.
For the kiss on the cheek and the hello gorgeous from Kenny.
For the $7 tab after five hours of drinking.
For the dice thrown across the bar after the grates came down at 4 am.
For the dark bathroom so vast there was always a second party inside.
For the other regulars, who we dated without realizing it and used their showers when Sandy turned ours cold and watched their bands and heard their stories about working with Channing Tatum.

Who could outlast who? It was our 21-year-old livers or the bar.

Then it was goodbye to leaving out the side door and stepping into a bright morning.
To the laughing fits as we climbed three flights in four-inch heels.
To never understanding why our male friends groaned when we said we'd meet them there.
To blurry flash photography of Halloween and New Years Eve and Tuesday nights gone wrong.
To watching each reinvention and movie night and new menu item try to grab customers who might actually pay their tabs.

L’oubli is dead but we survived.