My friend James suggested I write a small fiction about people in a bar, so here it goes:
She said she was a redhead, blue-eyed, hips out to here. The blue eyes, that might be true, but I can’t see her from where I’m standing. Her hair looks dyed; her ass, huge. I’m in the back of the bar. My head is clutched down to my chest, but I’m looking forward. She turns to a guy, about my height. He grins, looks down to see if she’s worth his time and bends his head to hers to whisper something about the dress she’s wearing and how her hair looks so red under the lights of the bar. There are no lights in this bar. When she walks away, she looks disgusted. He watches her walk and swigs his beer.
Another man to my right. He looks like me, I’m positive, and she goes to him. She likes this one. He could be him. I watch her mouth the question of her night: are you looking for me? A screenname. A fish in the online sea. He shakes his head. He could get some. So it is a shake of affirmation. He wants her. He likes her hair, her hips. Maybe her eyes. They drink. He buys her a shot, maybe two. Then a third. I watch this. He touches her hair, her hips. Her eyes are drunk and slitted.
I leave, the lights of the bar blinding; the love, blind.