O’Leary’s on the Bowery was the place to be. Quietly. It was a small tavern near St. James Place. It was dark inside and conversation was low and done from lowered heads. There was only one door and it was ‘watched’ often. The refreshment was sometimes brown, always sharp and for most it burned going down. If you wanted something really off the rocks you used the drawer. Drop your money in, name your poison, and shove said drawer closed. If you were lucky it would come back with a finger of fire to make even the biggest man’s eyes tear up.

In front of the dark mahogany bar with black eyes, heavy red lip stain and a sneer stood a woman. A gin cocktail. A drink set down before Lucy. The air was muggy and it was dim. It fit. Lucy tipped her head back and let the liquid course down her throat leaving a stream of lava and heat. Her eyes filled with tears and her stomach heaved.

It was a late night. Lucy’s attempts at sleep were thwarted night after night. Each time she closed her eyes she was there again. In a cold place with black dead trees. Her body tense with the anticipation of death. So here she was again. No one spoke to her. In fact no one spoke at all. The buzz of the air from outside crackled. She could not go on like this.

Walking the bright alive streets surrounded by color when all you see is black. Smiling through a cracked heart. Waking drenched in sweat with a crying and lost heart. How much longer could she endure. It had been eight years since she had left. And with each passing day she felt her body failing and emptying of will.

She had enjoyed her talks with Mr. Crane but he was gone. There was another woman at the Barbizon – Claire – with whom she had sat with smoking long cigarettes on the balconies overlooking the city. But they both sat for the most part silent, each with their own pasts closing in. Maybe this was why she still sat with her. Neither seemed interested in speaking. Only of inhaling.

Next Chapter: Rose, Los Angeles, 1976