Last Call Weather

The ice gave up around eleven, settled into its own water like a argument nobody won. Lamp in the corner throws a circle on the floor — same circle every night, same floor, same lack of anyone to cast a shadow through it. The rain has opinions about the windows. It taps, it drags, it changes its mind mid-sentence. Last call weather rolling in — the barometric pressure drops, the napkin curls, the lamp pulls its circle tighter, the room gets warm the way a room gets warm when it knows it's almost done with you. Three stools down, a coat nobody's come back for. The brass rail holds the light — dull where the elbows wore it, bright where nobody sits. Condensation draws a map on the glass. The jukebox hums between selections, not silence — the sound a room makes when it's breathing on its own. Last call weather settling in — the ceiling fan slows half a beat, the draft shifts south, the room gets warm the way a room gets warm when it's given up on the door. A clock somewhere agrees with itself every thirty seconds. The bottle on the shelf has memorized the tilt of the light. These are the reports from a front that never moves — the napkin's humidity reading: fully curled. Last call weather — already here. The rain found a new window to worry, the lamp moved on, the room gets warm the way a room gets warm when warm is all it has to offer. The rain has changed its mind again. The napkin doesn't...