His breath

His breath was full of whiskey; booze, liquid fucking gold, my man, so partner up and grab a glass; this wall of insomnia is about to collapse in a wave of distilled propinquity, all the way in real close, cousin-like, telling you about his daughter, about the way she's textured her future out in courdory waves of fine granular successive successes, and his eyes roam, and his constitution blinks, winks maybe, depending on how much you want to read into it, and he can talk about anything you might suggest, but only when you overtly suggest it, like verbally.  Otherwise he remains in the throws of whatever subjective binge he's on, fracturing the rocks in gaseous heaps of nonsense until everything and nothing is left to say.

And his tie is red and his suit is navy and his smile, for all that is left to desire, is genuine, because that's just who he is. Out there. Living. Splurging.  Socializing.  Drinking that liquid heat.  So syrupy that it glides out of his mouth in a fine mist to coat my psyche as he speaks.  I inhale it unwillingly, repulsed and famished.  The bartender looks at me, nods.  The bar is open.  Free.  Below, the christmas tree and ice skaters and tourists glide soundlessly.  Enjoy. Endeavor.  Do something high impact.  Gain a contact.  Gain a contract.  Sign something.  Get somewhere.  You've gotta live, gotta have something to show for it.  Without it what are you, what have you when you're experience has been thinned down, parred into the sliver of his breath.