Читать книгу The Pit - Tara Borin - Страница 7

In the long absence of light, a husky’s howls drive us from our singular

cells to trace paths pressed in snow: they bisect the frozen river, vacant lots, the barren school field—

all roads lead to the Pit.

Cold air smokes as we pull open the door. Hard to heat a room so big in weeks of forty below—

we keep our toques on, learn to flirt in our parkas, dance in our winter boots.

Held in perpetual Christmas lights’ glow, curtains drawn against the street, we pull hands from pockets to lay bare our secrets like dark gems.

They glint among small change, crumpled General Store receipts, bits of loose tobacco—

we palm them across the bar, leave them at the bottle-lined altar in exchange for an ounce of forgetting swirled golden in a glass.

Here is where we find the shortest distance to each other:

bar top, schnapps sticky, plywood dance floor that feels like it could give at any moment, the house band a jukebox onstage.

Last-call crush, we open our arms, make love to the room, tip the bartender and stumble into the street, faces turned up like children to catch whirling stars on our tongues.