A few nearby alcoholics mumble and turn their necks to briefly stare at this shriveled creature whose heart was left in the bedroom she lost her virginity in. And there her heart lays, beaten on the floor, drying out next to the black skirt and black thong and black tank top she just saw almost an hour ago. She checks her cell phone and hopes he left a message, but there’s nothing. No missed calls. No messages of any kind. Only recent visions of horror permeate around her. She wants to call him, but he may be expecting that. She wants to storm back to their place and destroy everything about the rooms, crushing bits of memories that will burn her insides when she sees them, crude waste to be scattered everywhere. But she stays in the bar. It’s here he told her over twenty times that he loved her, deeply he said.
Drinks.
Crush her emotions with a legal drug. Booze. It comes in pretty colors, a legal drug mixed by someone profiting off inebriated people displaying sad faces that are distorted by fake smiles. She reaches into her purse and grabs some loose bills—a few fives and a ten. She mumbles more to herself, walking slowly toward the bar counter. The bartender is the same familiar face she sees every time she’s been in here.
“Miriam? Hey, what are you doing here by yourself?” questions the bartender, Geneva.
Miriam doesn’t look past her shaky fingers. She shifts her line-of-sight to about Geneva’s chest level and submits with sour words:
“I’m here drinking a gin martini. No olives or lemon. Make it as . . . dry . . . as can be.”
“Would you like a coaster, Miriam?”
“Yes.”
“Would you like to talk, Miriam?”
“Yes.”
“What’s troubling you, Miriam?”
Miriam’s shoulders stretch and arch, recomposing herself as she now looks directly into Geneva’s eyes. Geneva’s always been kind to Miriam. All the times her ex brought her here, Geneva has been sweet, even when Miriam hadn’t shown her the respect and attention Geneva may have deserved.
“I’ll talk to you later.”
Geneva nods and smiles roughly.
Sit at a different booth, Miriam tells herself. Why sit in the same booth you’ve sat in so many times before? she continues. Sit closer to the poster of Robert De Niro.
She stays at the same booth.
He left you, Miriam.
She sips her martini—then gulps. A few over-thirty gentlemen in button-up shirts see this under twenty-five-year-old girl swallow the last drop of gin and vermouth recklessly. Amongst themselves they whisper and giggle, nods and smiles of direct lust. They’ve been milking their beers for close to a half hour, poking fun at people who enter the bar. Of course we know they’re only teasing and shifting the humor from themselves to others who really aren’t as tragic as they are.
“I’ll have another, Geneva.”
The same gin martini is served and Geneva only smiles.
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