by: Kirk Windus
A glimpse of a what could be and a reconciliation with what is….
You’re standing outside of a bar. You’re standing outside of a bar because it’s what you know.
Your girl left you to chase her books and degrees. It’s what she knows.
You know bars and you know being alone. And you’re tired of both.
But here you are standing outside of a bar. The biggest dive in town. You’re watching girl after girl walk by in her Saturday’s best. It’s an endless trail of worn-down stilettos and fading red and denim skirts with little tears and tugs the factory wasn’t responsible for.
That’s where you are when you see the most stunning girl you’ve ever seen in your life. Your girl is close, but that’s not what you think of at that moment because her nose is pressed to a book on post-recession macroeconomics. No, you don’t think of her, because walking towards you, slow like a freight train passing through town in the afternoon, is the most stunning girl you’ve ever seen.
You think that there’s no way she’s from around here. You’d know if she were. Good god, you’d know. She’s nothing like that numbing crowd you’ve been watching. You can’t see the white on her legs, because of her jeans. Jeans that must have taken a pit crew to help her squeeze into.
You’re simultaneously taking notes on every little detail – how her slick black hair has a subtle, subdued curl, how her lipstick is too bright for her skin tone – and at the same time you feel like you’re taking nothing in because you’re so shaken. You feel like you’re watching a semi-trailer truck crush a Carolla on the highway. You feel like that Carolla even. You can feel your body starting to crumble.
You’re standing outside of a bar thinking how sweet that too-red lipstick would taste. You wish you could swap that filter you hold between your teeth for the point of her nipples. You wish you could breathe them like smoke and gasp. You want to wrestle those jeans off and run your hand up those thighs. You’re stuck, frozen.
You think of the next morning. You think of the next morning when you’re chasing down a bottle of liquor. Any bottle to mix with orange juice. You’ll lay in bed with that spiked drink all day. It’s raining. Or maybe the sun’s beating down, cooking raisins, so you decide not to leave.
You’ll act out that scene from that Murakami novel. The one you both love. Maybe you’ll write poetry together, your legs wrapped up in the sheets, smoke rising above the headboard.
She’s a little ragged from the night before, but you wipe her makeup where it’s smeared and trail your fingertips down her cheeks smooth as paper.
You’re standing outside of a bar when she hands her ID to the bouncer and skips inside. You think about chasing her to tell her about all you have in store, but you’ve already lived it. You tasted her.
So you unravel your keys from the string in your pocket to head home. Your phone rings, and it’s your girl. Spiderwebs.
You tell her that you miss her. And you do. She tells you your voice sounds strange tonight. You say you miss her again. And you do. The most stunning girl you’ve ever seen is in your ear, so you tell her you miss her again.
You pull a cigarette from your pocket and breathe. You blow smoke.
