John Genson (Bio)
Emptiness never sleeps at Clifton’s 6 a.m. The city of stars, full of broken wings.
A man is weeping, tears dribbling into his glass.
“What’re ya havin?” a woman asks.
The man’s name is Marvin. He raises the glass, winks at the woman, and devours the tear-filled beverage.
“His next cry is on me,” she says to the bartender.
The woman’s name is Loretta. She sits next to Marvin, placing her hands on the bar.
“Dark outside,” Marvin says.
“It doesn’t stay that way.” Loretta pulls a cigarette from her purse, keeping her gaze on the wall of fifths lining the shelves.
“Would you go home with me?” he says.
“You don’t really want that.” Her voice sounds firm, but monotone.
“How would you know?”
“Well, do you?” She says looking into her miniature mirror.
“I guess not.” Marvin averts his vision back to the short glass.
Marvin wants the crying to continue, but his eyes are drier than a bundle of biscuits.
“Aren’t you going to ask me why I’ve been like this?” Marvin turns to Loretta, finding her, meeting her.
“No. I don’t much care.”
Marvin polishes the new glass, leaving remnants of whiskey in his stubble.
“He’ll have another,” Loretta says to the bartender.
The bartender pours, Marvin drinks, and Loretta orders.
Marvin’s eyes, even drier, looks at the bartender as the fountain continues to spew.
“This woman must really like you,” the bartender says to Marvin, stepping away.
“She’s my wife.”