The band was playing something
soft in the background,
drink glasses clinked over
The lights were low,
pink and blue neon,
reflecting in the fun-house
mirror over the oak bar.
She sat on her stool,
crowded by a man
more interested in talking
She’d dressed up for this date,
Hair, make-up, and the expensive
perfume. She was nervous the night
before, like a teenager.
She had no reason to be.
She thought he’d be nice,
but he was crude, rough and
dim as a gas lamp.
His profile was deceiving
and she should have known
from spelling errors and syntax,
but he was handsome. So, a chance.
He didn’t compliment her,
he only said she looked, “Tasty”
and that they should probably
just skip dinner in favor of heavy drinks.
He said something about “Those people,
and how they all think, they’re dirty, and
evil and they should be segregated”.
She cringed and brushed her hair back.
His shirt collar was open, a small
mustard stain on it kept
demanding her attention. She figured
this was his “nice” shirt, for funerals and dates.
He said she had nice legs and he put his
hand on her knee. She sat up straight
and brushed his hand away. He acted offended.
She wanted to vomit.
The band stopped playing their soft song.
People clapped lightly.
She stood from the stool.
She said she was done.
“Bitch”, he called after her
as she walked away.
She knew she had done the right thing.
She was glad to go.
She was lucky to get away.
The rest of the patrons were
stuck listening to her date,
curse her and call her all sorts of things.
He was asked to leave,
so he yelled at the bartender,
he yelled at the bouncer,
he called everyone in the bar, “Fags”.
He stormed out.
Thinking he was right.
Thinking he did the right thing.
The hell with that place and her.