I didn’t get the memo. I’m locked out of the party with my nose pressed against the glass. Hank is swapping war stories (horses and whores and psychotic exes) with James Wright and Raymond Carver. I think they might be drunk. They’re definitely horny. The women sit around subdued, cloaked in cigarette smoke and celebrity cologne. Smarmy motherfuckers. I can smell the sex from out here. Locked out. Behind the glass. Dripping disenchanted lines down to my curled toes.
