She
slides in to her spot at the end of the bar, knees bent, feet perched gingerly
on the iron rungs of the stool. Some nights her purse, usually a bright, orange
slim bag barely large enough to hold anything of value, dangles from a thin,
golden strap across her shoulder. Later
the purse rests on the bar as if to be whisked away any moment; other times it
dangles beneath her feet, far too large to be dainty yet barely noticeable
within high heeled sandals, pumps, or shoes.
The
sobbing has subdued, as it does each night an hour or so after it begins. It’s never clear what sets it off. The
weather, the traffic, the high price of gas seem mere distractions; she ignores
those who try to engage her in conversation about such mundane topics as life.
Tears
drip in to the glass, clinking like ice while watering down the already watery
Raspberry Martini. It doesn’t matter
though: the ice or the drink; she doesn’t drink alcohol. No one seems to
notice.
“What’s
got you so upset, pretty lady?” The voice, flat and surprisingly uncertain, huffs
out of the body of a short, portly man.
The
view in her peripheral is dismal. Cocky, crinkly and cheap: she sums him up
without ever fully glancing at him. She
prefers to appear as if looks don’t matter, randomly dismissing one after
another of would-be-knights. As if
everything didn’t matter; as if there was such a thing as random.
She
slumps deeper in to her seat, stirs the soupy concoction with a slender finger,
and waits for him to look better: it’s going to be a long night.
Ryan
likes to make an entrance. With the lazy air of someone used to making people
wait, he arrives at the bar thirty minutes late. His friends—one close one, the
other barely an acquaintance—have been waiting for three rounds. Taking off his
jacket, he scans the room, first in search of admiring glances and then in
search of his group. He pretends not to
notice the golden bronze skin; the dark lashes hiding what he imagines will be
darker eyes; the mature curves of the beauty at the end of the bar.
He
smiles, imagining what she’ll look like when he leaves her.
“Fate led me to you,” he purrs.
“
Have you ever considered that fate doesn’t like you?”
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