Golf Course Black
There’s a story here that isn’t. That is perhaps suggestive, but from the whole truthiness standpoint is absent. The two shadowed figures, revealed only by the lights they don’t obscure by reflection. Two dark bodies, 45 stories above Vegas.
There were two more I think, maybe just one if the other was en baño. Four comrades in a room, readying themselves for some kind of adventure by foot, ingested by eye, felt by the cash-turned-clay on the tables.
At bottom there’s a golf course. There is no light at night on a Vegas golf course. Night golf is not yet a thing. The night turns inside, where night doesn’t exist. Where clocks are not, where walls are red, where sound is abundant and the air is cool, wafting with free drinks at the waive of a hand.
Not in Boston.