Decatur Street is a foul sewer in the afternoon sun, running with taxis and buses full of tourists and sanitation trucks full of their leavings, the half-eaten oyster po'boys and vomit scented drink glasses fermenting beneath a cloud of thick with diesal exhuast. We sit at the bar of the Abbey, M and J and I, but don't turn to look outside. M has discovered she loves Ramos Gin Fizzes and Betz is happy to make them, provided we can produce the egss. J has learned that the Central Grocery sells dried cod, an evil sort of fish jerky. I need to finish this draft to make this place of memory complete.
Dispatches from an Imaginary Disaster