I’ve never heard anything like it. I watch the old man, head swaying, neck tensed. His voice is raw. I watch the people in front of me melt, liquid legs sinking them down into a loveseat riddled with cigarette burns. In the corner of my vision I see the flash of other eyes—glossed over, gleaming. My own start to burn as he sings about the city’s ghosts, about the storm that stole everything. I feel myself swaying too and I’m not even drunk. But I feel ripped open anyway.
And he won’t stop singing. I close my eyes and feel him wrangling the sound, wrangling it until it wrangles me. And I think, she would have loved this, this long sad thing. Because life is a long sad thing.
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