All In An Evening

Fatigue of the soul, written in parts.

Starting with two shots, one ordered one bequeathed.

A bottle of misunderstanding, corrected, and the mistake kept.

All in pursuit of a reference, a spoken connection, a name written but never met, that the two reverse.

We got to his line in front of his pub, the block full of feet and half as many people. We left, fruitlessly, to find a hidden gem not two doors down. Its name was Opium, but not the lowercase sort.

Glasses without tags, glasses with tags, all empty.