Winter nights in Maryland.  The mist sticks to my jacket.  Moistens my beard.  Saturates my skin.

This is what I feel as I saunter down to the bar.  Stepping over puddles and past open garage doors.  By men shouting to each other for wrenches or pliers or whatever, under and around elevated cars.  

I make my way.  Along the sidewalk.  In darkness.  Alone.

But the bartender lulls me.  With her pony tail and plaid shirt.  With her ease of moving up and down the bar. Handling glassware and beer taps.  Beer patrons and bar guests.  With her cravings for a cigarette, which she verbalizes only to me. 

She permeates.  Gets in.

And I feel vulnerable.  For one Tuesday night, I feel open.  Exposed. Naked.

And it feels good.

Even after she leaves me for the cold

and some smoke.  I know she'll return.  And I know it'll make me smile.  Make me what I want to be.

What is that?