I have only ever been to Chicago once before. It was for a high school competition, and, when we were knocked out in the first round, our coach took us for deli sandwiches and kosher pickles and to see Picasso’s Blue Guitarist at the Chicago Art Institute. I couldn’t believe it was so small. The painting. Not the Institute.
Now I am a grown up, and we are here for a proper job. We roll in late, but the buildings are alive. The steel and the glass rattle in the wind. “Let’s move to Chicago,” Patrick says. But, it is too cold for a Southerner like me. It is April, and it is cold.
We meet Daniel at nearly midnight. It has been a long time since we have seen our long time friend, and we want to drink, but we are tired. So, we crack open $10 beers from the mini bar and try to concise our lives into the time it takes us to drink them.
Another hotel, another bed, and the sheets are cold and crisp. As I close my eyes and drift into sleep, I think I hear Patrick say “Chicago is indeed too cold. I want to live by the sea.”
