by J. Domingo
You see I had to try, pluck up the courage, go for it, you know, got nothing to lose, what have I got to lose? I had my best face on, my tightest mini skirt, my best fuck off killer heels. I wobbled a little, couldn’t walk a lot, had to down my Bacardi, straight up, two ice cubes, a splash of diet coke, if I could have I’d have had a puff or two as well, no thank you, idiot do-gooders banning smoking in pubs.
“Buy you a drink?” came out all wrong anyway and you just stared and all I could see was the mosaic behind the bar—where was I? Did this use to be a church? Maybe, I don’t know—but it’s pretty all those colours dancing with the light shining on it, so pretty and of course you’ve not said anything and so I prop myself up trying to look all casual.
“Yeah sure, why not?” you say and I choke up all those words I memorised and now all I can hear is Beyonce singing about putting a ring on it and I wish I hadn’t worn my rhinestone embedded acrylic nails as now I’m fumbling to open my purse—I can’t open my bloody purse. It hangs across my body and I can’t get to grips with the stupid big ugly clasp—
“Hey, no worries,” you suddenly say and you are smiling so beautifully. “I’ll get this round.”
1 comment:
Nice job building the stress of the approach, letting us in on the awkwardness and the self-consciousness. Nice tension release at the end.
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