David stood once more at the peak of the stairs above Grady's entrance. The Santa Ana's howled, the wind whipping through his hair and tearing at his shirt flapping it out in front of him, an H&M button-up turned wind-flogged flag. Despite their strength, the winds brought no relief, only more heat. David could feel the sweat dripping down his neck and pooling along his back.

    A minute passed, maybe more, there at the top of the steps as he simply stared blankly down at the wooden sign swinging madly as its iron hinges protested against the storm. Amidst that rusted creaking, the inner hum droned on, beat by beat, a mad siren call beckoning him to enter the bar.

    The voice had drowned some in the wind, fading at times along his path to Grady's but always calling him back. (Because you have places to be.)

    A gut-wrenching twist blacked out his vision momentarily and David grasped at the railing for support. It felt cold and rough against his skin, marred under flaking layers of paint counting the years like the rings of a tree. How many times had he had passed this dive without ever noticing it? How long had it stood, hidden in its own squalor (splendor)?

    His mood stunk of death and that damn voice, those thoughts unbidden (but oh so welcome. We like it here, don't we?), hounded him mercilessly.

    David could not even recall how he had found himself outside of Grady's, but now, there frozen upon that threshold, he knew he had no choice but to enter. Whatever had compelled him, that nagging internal commentary the primary culprit, it would not cease its grip until he had entered.

    Nearby a palm frond fell smacking against the roof of a beatup Tacoma pick-up. It hit with a clang, startling David, and stirring him from his reverie.

    He shook his head, rubbed at his blurring eyes, and started down. (Yes, down. Down we go.) Slowly. One foot at a time. With each step the drumming grew louder, its pace quickening. And the voice's chatter grew. (So close, so close. Just a little further.) He could feel the beat now sounding out within his inner ear, thumping and vibrating. (Comforting and consoling.) For a moment a wave of dizziness overtook him. He clutched harder at the paint-flaked, wrought iron railing, catching himself before he could fall.

    At just that instant, a fierce gust blasted down the stairway hurtling the sign back upon its hinges until it flipped over its support pole and descended once more with a clang and a loud snap (Smash and splinter. Stab it home.), its outer hinge breaking clean through. The sign slammed into the wall, bounced back, then twirled there hanging limp from its sole remaining hinge, spinning and clattering against the brick like a lone, hideous windchime.

    "Shit," David murmured. He straightened himself out and took another step down. Up above, another palm frond fell slamming onto the top of the stairs.

    That's it, he thought. I'm done with this.

    He took the remaining steps two at a time (Yes, yes, faster now), the drumming building to a crescendo. All around him he could hear more debris slamming against storefronts and cars, battling against the rising whistle of the winds catching along the basement stairway.

    He virtually leapt the last few steps to the door, and immediately yanked it open, hauling back against the winds. The crisp frozen air of Grady's rushed out, wrapping around him. For such a shithole, the place did not skimp on its AC. He could feel the chill biting into him as he entered, while the heat still baked along his back.

    Novel as the sensation was, it was the absence that struck him – the nothingness. As he had opened that door all sounds had disappeared. The wind, the drumming in his ears, the banging of branches, discarded trash caught up in the gusts, and broken signs, all of it had died out and not with a gentle fade, but all at once.

    Even the voice disappeared.

    David stepped inside, letting the door bang shut behind him, destroying that eerie silence as he did. He wanted nothing to do with it, and turned his attention instead to the establishment before him.

    It had been nearly a month and a half since he had last found himself in this bar. That had been the night Glazer had canceled on him, when they were first supposed to meet. He'd wandered past the place a half dozen times between then and now. Sometimes he'd felt felt that unnamable allure, although most of the time it had been absent. Still, something about this bar called to him, and this day the allure had been stronger, so much stronger, and it had won out.

Nothing had really changed, save for the clientele, and even that was roughly the same: a few college co-eds, a couple of drunks, and the same old man. This time the man sat by the window staring up at the street above rather than dozing in the corner. His beard had been trimmed back and, now awake, David could see a spark of life in him that previously had not been apparent. His eyes shone with a new vitality, and though his hair was completely grey, David no longer felt so certain that the man was as old as he had appeared on first glance. He gave now more the feel of a man that had lived fast and hard, and aged well beyond his time.

    David took a seat at the bar and turned his attention to the tap. He strained for a moment, then slipped on a new pair of glasses, and let the world come into focus. The lenses weren't a cure all, but they did act as a decent band-aid.

    After that first real meeting with Glazer, David's life had taken a quick turn for the better. He had been painting again. Prolifically so. The lack of confidence that had been suffocating him had washed away. He knew Glazer's praise brought with it only a temporary fix, a patch holding back the onslaught of self-doubt, but he had decided to take advantage of the reprieve it offered.

    A couple weeks back he had finally worked up the nerve to ask Erika for a loan so that he could see a specialist about his eyes. Of course she had said yes. He had always been able to count on Erika. Even when they had first met, she had radiated positivity and trust. It's what she did. Erika was a glittery unicorn that brought out the best in everyone around her, and offered her own best in return.

    David's luck being what it had been, he'd managed an early appointment. The specialist had noted that David's vision had faded some, yes, and the glasses had been prescribed, but he hadn't been able to explain the blurring, or even the itching, like a grit scratching on the whites of his eyes – at least not to David's satisfaction.

    The doctor had found and removed a sty, and informed David that he likely had posterior blepha-something – some doctor jargon – that roughly meant he had bad tear ducts or tear duct glands. The end result meant he excreted too much oil when he blinked, which hardened and blocked the gland and left particulate on his eyes, hence the grit. This in turn caused the itching and the burning, while the unhardened oils caused his eyelids to stick and water, and the whole thing reddened his eyes, inflamed his lids, and created styes and blurry vision.

    Yeah, it was a good explanation on the surface, but David had two problems with it. One, there was no cure. Dr. Stephens, that was his name, told David that he'd have to use warm compresses every day, softening the oils, massaging his eyelids, and then scrubbing the whole mess clean. Every Day. Every. Single. One. Twice a day. Forever. That seemed like shit to him.

    Two, even if Dr. Stephens' diagnosis fit, and if David put aside the agitation of the daily treatment, David didn't feel like his eyes were just being irritated. The agitation didn't just spring from the swelling and the scratching, and that deep desire to just gouge out your eyes to make the pain stop. No it was more than that. David knew that his sight wasn't fading; it was going away completely, and nothing the doctor mentioned explained the blindness he knew was coming. The blindness he knew that he couldn't escape.

    Sitting in Grady's comforted in the cool AC, his eyes soothed and clear and looking out with a long missed clarity through his new lenses, David still knew he was seeing the world through eyes that held a pending expiration date. Borrowed as his sighted time was, however, at least today he could see.