The Alcove: Afters
Last week’s Poetry Slam has ended, the scent of cigars lingering hungry for fire to catch from a match. The proprietors gather at the end of the bar, hugs and laughter — how little separates laughter from crying, I think.
Denise looks up from polishing water marks from a wine glass; “Hi there. I remember you, the Poetry Slam last week,” she says, nodding toward the mic, a shiny piece of metal, alone and much shorter now, less intimidating; “so what can I get you?”
“Cake and a glass of milk, please …Mimi’s cake, if there is any…”
…beyond me, the proprietors’ laughter continues softly, Denise’s own joining theirs. I smile at laughter’s percussion — but I know some warmth asks only to be felt, not entered.
“I’ll take it over there, thank you,” I say, pointing toward an alcove table.
Written for Denise’s Six Sentence Story including the word “fire”. Some images created with Midjourney; all writing is authentically my own original work.©Misky 2006-2026.
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