Photo Story: Through the Bottom of a Highball
It’s what we say when we can’t say anything in the dim lights, strong drinks, and vacant smiles. We are not here. She is not laughing. He is not touching her waist. I am not drinking to forget, but to remember, each greasy five and ten a ticket to what was and what will be again in the images buried under the smoke of the slivered china, her broken clasp, the slam of the screen door. It’s what we say when we can’t say anything, but she says everything through the bottom of my highball glass and everything’s a blur.
Photo Credit: Jeremy Brooks
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