Uncle Patrick
In the bruised cathedral of the dive, where saints of neon bleed slow crimson on the walls, I sit beside the ghost of Uncle Patrick—silent, eternal—his Campari glowing like a ruby heart torn fresh from some old wound. The smoke hangs in veils, a funeral lace for dead afternoons, and the glass trembles between his
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And the buzzer short-circuits like a mad trumpet in the wires, brrrrap-brrrrap-brrrrap, amplified blasts ripping down the quiet hallway, salvo after salvo bursting into the black night outside, echoing off the peeling walls, and she’s there, right on time, bang on the dot, and his gut twists with that old primal howl for love and