I pick at a hangnail and a drop of blood forms between the nail and skin, and it fucking hurts. I’ve been picking at hangnails my whole life, and it rarely works out well.
pick. blood. pain.
The jukebox is alternating Sinatra and Social D and Barry Manilow, and I wonder who programmed that fucker. There’s nowhere to pick your songs, and no way to turn it off, except to unplug it, which I swear I’ll do if Barry keeps droning.
A light fills the room, and I look over at the door. There she is, tall and confident, with wavy dark hair hidden under a baseball cap for a team I don’t recognize.
She’s got a nose ring and is wearing a sexy halter top with a sparkly unicorn graphic that says “In your dreams.”
Her lips are wet from being licked a moment before, and she’s carrying a large shopping bag from a fancy 5th avenue boutique. I can tell it’s full of her laundry, jeans on the top.
The hipster bartender with a bandana and beard says something to her and they both laugh. Boyfriend?
She gives him a peck on the cheek, and as she’s leaving, glances over at me before she walks out the door. I can see something’s fallen out of her bag, and for a minute I consider picking it up, and running after her. But I don’t.
Now we are alone, the hipster bar tender and me, and I wonder where he’s from and how he makes his facial hair look so cool. Some sort of wax probably.
The jukebox makes a clicking sound, and Mike Ness starts singing the story of his life, and I think I really need to get the fuck out of here, but I can’t, so I order another beer instead.