The message arrived on a Thursday, which was significant because nothing important ever happens on a Thursday. Thursdays are for doing laundry and eating leftovers and pretending that the world isn't slowly falling apart.
The text message said: You are the wall. Not "you are the wallflower." Not "you are a wall." Just: You are the wall. I stared at my phone, standing in the doorway of O'Malley's Bar on East 43rd Street, holding a whiskey I didn't remember ordering. The bar was empty except for a guy in the corner playing a slot machine and the bartender polishing a glass with a towel that was probably dirtier...
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