Touch me. Touch me like you didn't touch me last night.

Sitting in a coffee shop, drinking my triple vanilla latte, hammering out a new Sir Reginald tale while Sara bowls with coworkers and then buys soapmaking supplies.

I keep thinking back to when I first arrived in this town, eleven years ago, and how I terribly miss the midnight sales at the now-closed local music store, Record Service, where we would brave the cold of winter to get our hands on the latest albums...they had an enormous chalkboard above the register that told of new arrivals for the next three weeks.

Now the storefront remains empty, and more and more places vanish, to be replaced by Qdoba, and Potbelly, and Starbucks, and Noodles and Co., and Chipotle.

Fuck, I am become old. And my flask of whiskey is empty.

Back to Sir Reginald...and Sir Reginald.

b