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.