You a
fighter?
He barely
heard her voice over the music coming from across the bar
A small and
ancient box spewing out tinny pop radio
God am I in
the wrong place
He thought
for the 3rd time that afternoon
No, why
He finally
asked the woman
She had been
sat there when he walked in and
Likely still
would be after he left
If he
actually got out of there alive
You have
that look. I’ve seen it a lot. I know
She slid her
hands over her cigarettes and lighter
Dragging them
along with the heavy bottom glass of bourbon
And shifted from
her seat onto the stool right next to his
What do
you know? I ain’t a fighter. Not big enough.
Had maybe
three my entire life.
Outside the
sun had begun its descent, on the hottest day of that summer
A black McGraw
Electric fan was just about making it around
The blades ticking
along in unison as her red lips moved
A shitty
breeze was better than none at all
As she
continued to dig in
So what,
you a runner? Nah you’re no runner.
Your eyes
are tired. Black. That’s because you fight. All the time.
That why
you’re in here – all day, alone?
He took a last sip and stood up to get out, the clicks inside his back
Betraying both his age and his purpose.
Your jacket, she gestured. It had fallen under the
bar stool and
Was lying in
what he could only hope was old, dried booze.
That’s piss.
She said, laughing
Yeah
Yeah
I know.