Perfect   He slid the drink across the bar. And that’s what’s called a perfect manhattan, my friend. He stared, daring me to disagree. Fat chance you’ll find better anywhere else. Ten dollars said he was right, said we could be conspirators, real New Yorkers. I nodded, took the glass, drank, nodded again. He reminded me of something about God — I got that much, and thought about the burning light outside, and Second Avenue melting beyond the heavy velvet curtains. He poured another. Night fell like glue, like hours oozing through hot asphalt, falling ashes. He told me about his barn swallow life, plastered to a canyon wall in a nest made of mud and spit. He warned me about the ones with money, the ones without, the bridge-and-tunnel crowd with their whoop-de-doo, their virulent hair, their guns. He leaned a little closer. But I care about this town, he said, I’m like a fireman, saving people, saving their stuff, dowsing the flames. Perfect. I said I was tired, had to go. One more, he said, on the house.     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont June 2015