On Those Nights

There are nights when they come. Uninvited and unannounced. They sit in a circle around me. They light up cigarettes and cigars, choking the air out of the room. They pour themselves cheap drinks. They take off their shoes and put their feet up, leaving their awful imprints on my furniture. And then, they start telling me stories.

They tell me stories that that I have heard again and again. I tell them to stop. I have written new ones and don't need the old stories anymore. But they insist. They whip out the knife of memories and start carving, all the while chanting remember, remember, remember!

It is usually past midnight when they finally leave, tipping their hats and waving a cheerful farewell. See you soon. I tell them to send a postcard the next time. Don't bother making the trip. They say that's half the fun gone. I crawl into bed and surrender to the exhaustion.

On those nights, I do not open my bedroom window.