The Intimacy Of Writing In The Second Person, In A Bar

What you love about it: The thick wooden planks of the walls, so dark a brown they seem perpetually wet, soaked through, as though tugged from the wreck of a ship long sunk, hauled to the surface and then the shore, transported by wagon or train or brute animal strength across the great plains of the country to be reformed, pressed into service—still dripping, still drowned—as the walls of this Midwestern bar. The cool, silver surface of the bar itself, swirled and burnished steel, the way it reflects—dimly, as deep water would—the lights that hang on long cords just above your head, the way it reflects those lights but nothing else (not your fingers, not your eyes). That there is no mirror behind the bar. This is not that kind of place.
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