We were going to meet for a quick drink, because we hit it off in an elevator, of all places. I think it was something about socks, where she liked my socks, and I asked about hers. I’m not creative, I just repeat stuff. I like repetition, so much that I repeat things that have already been repeated just for the sake of repetition. I like it. There’s something about a date that never ends, though, that teaches you some essential things about repetition when other people are involved. You can’t stay in one place forever, for example, and you can’t drink the same drink too often, at least not forever.
She likes repetition, too, apparently, because she said she always stays in Manhattan business hotels whenever she’s in town. I imagine they’re lovely, but right now I’m enjoying a lovely memory about Chumley’s. This bar in the Village has seen a number of famous writers, and they’ve left some of their book jackets here for the patrons to look at. It’s also been falling apart for a number of years, and I hear that it’s closed right now, but on the verge of a re-opening.
That’s good news for a lot of people in the city, because it’s a favorite watering hole for the living as well as some ghosts who’ve taken to pursuing their absolutely last drink here. Chumley’s has memories for everyone, and now it holds one of mine. Our conversation picked up with socks, and soon moved to hats. No one wears hats anymore, she said, and this lead to a long conversation about fedora’s. All the while, she kept staring into the whites of my eyes, and said she liked it that I looked haunted. I was actually becoming haunted by her, and for once, this was a singular incident that felt better than any repetition. And I like repetition.