By Christopher Munroe
His bangs feather like the wings of some majestic bird, even at forty-five.
The hair’s thinner now, but the bangs haven’t changed.
He’s gone to this pub since nineteen, since his last hit, though he didn’t know it’d be his last at the time. People here leave him alone.
She, nearly forty herself, works up the courage to approach. She’s been trying all night.
“I’m sorry, but aren’t you?”
“Why yes, I am.”
She blushes, fourteen again, and he smiles that same smile from years before.
And taking her home later, he can’t help thinking: Life isn’t so bad.