A faux velvet drawstring bag, now faded from royalty blue to banality, lies forgotten at the far corner of that dust bunny bar we used to know. You know, the one with the flickering neon sign that beckoned to us as we skipped home from work on those odd-numbered Friday nights. A wisp of frayed ribbon holds snug against the old glass marbles still stuffed inside. Heaven forbid they tumble askew, right into the punch-drunk path of some rubber-legged schmuck who’s dressed to the nines in all shades of retro-fifties thrift store finds. Because it happens, you know it does. The tentacles of dormant desires we thought we’d shed in the alleyways of our youth wait patiently (oh, so patiently!) to trip us as we fall.
