In the soft light of the living room the yellow wine looks clear. It is the third glass, the last in the box. The AC makes a racket, but I have to pause to even notice it. It is a cheap unit, and reminds me of the one in that first apartment on Oak Street all those years ago. Some things haven't changed.
Only just over two hours ago the last of the high clouds lost their glow. The window is a dark mirror now, my face a shadow with tiny squares of the reflected screen off my glasses' lens for eyes. The long day is over, shorter ones to follow.
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