Fridays Taste Like Loneliness and Longing

On Fridays that feel like Fridays, Adrienne Barrios wonders if the people she calls friends also call people friends and, if so, do their friends call other people friends? Adrienne Barrios wonders if she is one of those people. Adrienne Barrios drinks whiskey out of a glass people drink whiskey out of and remembers a time when friends were real, when shoes went outside. When pizza looked like pizza. At the same time, a half dozen states north, Leigh Chadwick drinks margaritas and thinks about sending a postcard to 2017. She imagines the word treacle. She wonders if she will ever grow wings. And at the same time, a half dozen states south, Adrienne Barrios wishes she could walk through a field of Leigh Chadwicks and breathe the air in the field of Leigh Chadwicks and pluck the feathers off the flowers that have just hatched in the field of Leigh Chadwicks. Imagine, Adrienne Barrios messages Leigh Chadwick. Imagine people in a room filled with other people in a room. Leigh Chadwick can imagine but only if she squints. This is what she tells Adrienne Barrios. Leigh Chadwick also tells her if you squint harder, an entire hospital empties and if you keep squinting until your eyes are nothing but skin, it is as if you’ve never slept in sorrow. Shortly after, a half dozen states north, Adrienne Barrios wishes she could climb inside a martini and soak her pores until it dissolves her. Until it is impossible to tell where she starts and the martini stops. When Adrienne Barrios squints, she can see Leigh Chadwick in a field of Leigh Chadwicks. Adrienne Barrios squints harder and then someone is drinking her until she is nothing more than a drop of liquid and no one remembers her name. Even her name forgets her name.