I showed up early enough to be one of the barflys. I didn’t stick around for the place to get packed. She didn’t let me.
I drink whiskey because I like the taste. It’s wet fire that teases you with the smell of wood and the tastes of fruit and flowers. It’s brazen. It’s coy. There’s something undeniable about being in a club that understands that. It’s a club that doesn’t let you in unless you’re serious enough to not to take yourself seriously. It’s a club that makes you kick away the ladder once you climb up in the tree. It’s a club where the prizes you take home are innuendo and a cocksure grin.
You can’t match a dress with your hair like that and expect to go unnoticed. You can’t wear those nonchalant eyes–turn that casual gesture–and expect to keep anything hidden. No matter what, you can’t hide such a fundamental purpose.
Of everyone in the room, she and I were the only two people to get it. Her eyes told me that much.
“What are you looking at?” Then the grin.
She drives with her top down. She gives it all away by keeping it all to herself. She knows.
I didn’t stand a chance.