A drop of sweat threatens the cliff of her cupid’s bow. She manages to taste it with the tip of her tongue. The tip is meant for salt. The corner of a strip lash keeps getting caught in her tear duct. She tries to blink it back into place. Bat-bat-batting at the man straddling the bar stool in front of her. She turns her back towards him to roll her eyes at her girlfriend across the landscape of faux tealights atop tables, perfect teardrop flames gyrating in synchrony with hips. At least the backrest cuts the air between her exposed pussy and the jack and coke motivated bulge under his Wranglers. She puffs out her top lip to blow her bangs out of her lashes, but they get stuck to her lip gloss instead. She tucks and arches until wisps of hair brush against her tailbone, a dollar laid flat between two dimples.
*
The next song starts, and he asks her to sit down again. We only have 25 minutes left. He points to her hello kitty watch. There are no clocks on the walls. Care to renew? Your subscription? He laughs. Let’s make the most of our time here now. She doesn’t want to make anything. He’s already run through the script. Where are you from? Have you been back? No, not since I was nine. Oh, let me take you. No thanks. He shifts in his seat. The second hand ticks over an increasing pulse in her wrist. Out of turn, out of tune, out of time.