Sitting at the bar is no different from sitting at home. Sitting at the bar is no different from sitting at home, but drunk. Sitting at the bar is no different than sitting at home, but with people. Sitting at the bar is no different than sitting at home.
There is another person sitting at home, at the bar, on the end, she is crying. I watch her, curious. She is crying into something pink. She doesn’t look like the type to drink something pink; doesn’t look like the type to cry.
She walks towards me. I look ahead.
“Do you want to fuck me?” she asks, close enough for me to hear.
She left her drink where it was.
I look at her then down at her hands. Her nail polish is white–chipped.
“No, I tell her chipped nail polish.
“Then what are you looking at?” she accuses me.
I shrug. “You were crying,” I say. I wait, she doesn’t respond. “I felt bad,” I add.
I don’t know what her face looks like in the moment, I don’t check. I just hear her say, “that’s worse.”
“That’s worse,” she says, again.
Then, she leaves. I look over at her pink left drink. I don’t know if she paid or not. I don’t know where the bartender is. I walk over and drink it in one. No one else in the bar seems to care. I shuffle back to my seat, the bartender still hasn’t come out.
I finish my own drink and go home.
*If you’d like to support us further on Patreon, click HERE. Thank you!