At the bar:

Demons grow in the dark like mildew. I close my eyes and they're larger. Clusters soon creep into the light where their inky surfaces solidify.

Scary Movie Syndrome rouses them, and they pop under pressure to bloom on the edge of sight. I know I am seeing reflections or shadows shifting as I step behind the bar and squat down to lower a case of Corona.

Two weeks ago I watched through my fingers as a young boy's face shimmered and distorted. The mouth snarled and cracked with teeth jutting and threatening. Now I think I see his silhouette, innocent like any child waiting for the school bus, but frightening when I repaint him with the ragged smears of imagination.

Fighting a panic stitched from ugly thoughts in my head I change the trash, sweep the floors, drag a mop across sticky tiles. If it's empty I fill it, if it's dirty I clean it…that's a bar, continually draining and replenishing. Get 'em drunk and send 'em home…

Last night in the early evening a woman sat crocheting a fine silver weave, placing beads throughout until she had a beautiful mesh necklace strung together. The Designated Driver. With her was a man drunk and breaking $50s on every round. He bought for himself his friend the boys in the corner the stranger beside him the couple at the table the cluster of friends rounding the opposite corner and more and more. Three rounds and the stranger beside him asked, hey, it's nice of you, but you don't have to keep buying.

What, you won't drink a shot with me?

His friend crocheted, chuckled, and adjusted her glasses.

Well, sure, the stranger said. I was just wondering.

Wondering? I am drunk. And, I am rich!

Laughter from us all as glasses rose.

From the corner: too bad you're not good looking, too.

We all laughed again.

Last week the open mic night's harsh chords and skipping melodies faded. One musician remained. I liked him. A voice like water. He did not have the sound of a coached man. With a deep breath and song in his head that had already traveled across his guitar strings, sound left his lips and expended. A natural voice an eager piercing beautiful voice like frosted crystal. I loved it. He sat and talked with another patron as I swept. His voice strode across the scales with sure-footedness and ease.

Beside him as they had performed was another, gentler voice that rose with a silky feminine lilt, like thick dark hair where a brush has passed hundreds of times, blending a thousand nuances into a sheen. She was a mouthful of honey a salve a sound that soaked the room, like snow or perfume.

They would leave soon, a jumble of lyrics and notes.

I wish I had Lily trained to sit in the shadows and lunge if I needed her.