In the Night Kitchen

Phoenix Coverley

You know it's summer time when it's warm enough to hang out on the rattan chair you found in the street and covered with a sheet. You're sipping an ice cold watermelon mint margarita from the night kitchen, curled up with a few Surfer's journals, thinking you will finally catch up on back issues of the New Yorker but keenly eyeing the new Henning Menkel crime novel...Instead you ignore them all, stare up at the stars and just don't give a crap about the fact that the first line rhymes. You hear the subletter from Poland next door shouting at the top of his lungs into his Skype at his wife half way across the world who dutifully shouts back and you just dissapear into the moment, hoping your rental house isn't in escrow to pompous country club dwellers on the hill, wishing and sipping your way into the belief that this stillness will go on forever.

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