May
13
There’s a man in the corner of the bar, slugging his beer, quiet and remote. He doesn’t fit in here. He’s not a queen, a pimp or a Post Office worker, so I can only guess that he is, like me, a tourist on the back of life's fucking beach cruiser, along for the ride. It’s 2005 and I have fake blonde stripper hair down to my waist, panda rimmed eyes, a Bronx twang that I picked up because the bartender could never understand me when I asked for water.